Hopelessly
by closerthanyournextbreath
Summary: Gabriella Montez is shy, intelligent, and sweet, but always seems to fall through the cracks of East High's social ladder. Troy Bolton is immensely popular, smoking hot, and famous for his player status and his incredible cruelty. What happens next?
1. Bitch

**HOPELESSLY: Troyella Fanfiction**

**Summary:**

**Gabriella Montez is shy, intelligent, and sweet, but always seems to fall through the cracks of East High's social ladder. Troy Bolton is immensely popular, smoking hot, and famous for his "player" status and his incredible cruelty. When their lives collide, what happens next? Gabriella despises him, Troy is frustrated by her. But then, one of them falls in desperately in love.**

Gabriella Montez is shy, intelligent, and sweet, but always seems to fall through the cracks of East High's social ladder. Troy Bolton is immensely popular, smoking hot, and famous for his "player" status and his incredible cruelty. When their lives collide, what happens next? Gabriella despises him, Troy is frustrated by her. But then, one of them falls in desperately in love. It's a story about Fire and Ice.

Girls like me go by unnoticed, ignored. Girls like me, with mousy dark curls and kind chocolate eyes, with loose-fitting clothes and soft, unassuming voices. Girls like me… they never quite fit in, they never quite catch up, they walk through the hallways of life hoping to stumble upon something better, brighter – a place where they are noticed, remembered, adored.

Sometimes, as I clutch my books to my chest and wander from class to class, my eyes fall to the girls walking beside me. Eyes bright with laughter and carefully-applied makeup, shimmering blonde hair swinging, slim hips and bronzed legs encased in flowy, flattering scraps of clothing. _They_ were the girls you remembered. Girls with perfect hair, perfect lips, perfect breasts, perfect lives. Being suffocated with 120 versions of Barbie in one high school was nauseating, painful. Sometimes, I feel like I'm not good enough, pretty enough, blonde enough. But most of the time, I just imagine their lives in 10 years: pregnant, homeless, and turning tricks on the corner of Main Street. I envision smiling despondently as I walked by them on my way to my six-figure dream job, my handsome doctor husband, my warm, happy home. It's the one cruel fantasy I allow myself to dwell on. It's the only thing that keeps me going.

Tipping my face back, I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I guess I could be pretty if I tried. The tiny tube of black MAC mascara is burning a hole in my jeans, and I can imagine walking through the halls with beautiful, coated lashes. No, I wouldn't walk, I'd _saunter_. I'd swish my hips back and forth and toss my mane of chestnut hair over my shoulder. Boys would whisper about me, eyes hungry, breath short. I'd be the queen of the school: the smart, sexy, wanton vixen. But maybe, that's not who I want to be.

Licking my lips one last time, I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear and turn away from my reflection, hands stuffed into my pockets.

At least girls like me didn't get hurt.

Holy crap, she is so damn hot.

Blonde hair, green eyes, sexy ass, and a reality-defying body, all wrapped up into one incredibly dull cheerleader.

But damn, she's _fine_.

She's pulling at my arm, whispering something sultry in my ear, and I'm trying to remember her name. Jessie? Jenny? Jackie?

"Jackie, you're too fucking sexy for your own fucking good," I mutter hoarsely into her hair, loving the way her breasts brush up against my arm, the way her long legs look in the skirt she's wearing. The way she moans breathily against me, the way I know, in an hour, she'll be on her back, screaming my name.

" Troy…" she whimpers shamelessly, rubbing up against me in the middle of the hallway. We're leaning against the lockers, wrapped up in each other, and I've never felt so in control in my entire life. This is how I liked them: blonde, sexy, easy. Moaning my name, wriggling against me, clawing at my clothes in full view of everyone else. This is what girls really want. Someone to play with, cling to, fuck with. No strings attached, no emotions involved. Just hot, rough, painful sex.

And God, this philosophy is _so _working out for me.

In the midst of the haze of lust and sweat, I hear someone carefully clearing their throat behind me. Jackie, or Jenna, stills her fingers from slowly unbuttoning my shirt and peers above my shoulder at the intruder with cruel irritation.

"Got a problem, bitch?"

"Umm… you guys are… on my locker."

The voice, is shy, nervous, trembling. I wipe my mouth and turn my head, acutely aware of the hair falling into my eyes.

She's small, petite, and has olive skin, dark eyes, darker hair, and I'm sure I've seen her before, but I don't know where, and quite frankly, with a handful of hot blonde next to me, I don't care.

"Can you move?" Her voice has a hint of frustration now, and she's looking at her watch, impatient.

I let go of Jessi and walk closer to the small girl, looming over her, the crown of her head barely reaching the tips of my broad shoulders. She trembles in fear, but doesn't back down. Her eyes glare back into mine with the same intensity, and I decide that she could be mildly attractive if she tried harder. But right now, I'm pissed and frustrated and I want her out of my sight. Stupid bitch.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" I shove her into the lockers, love the sharp intake of breath I get in return. She bites her lower lip before whispering, "Gabriella Mon-"

"This is rich!" I laugh humourlessly and bring my face closer to hers. "You think I actually care about what your name is, slut? What I want you to do is turn around, walk away, and never, ever speak to us again." I lean even closer to her, twisting a strand of her hair around my finger almost tenderly before raising my arm and scattering the books she's holding in her arms all over the tiled floor.

Her eyes well up, but she bites her lip to stop from crying. I laugh in her face and turn towards Jackie, grabbing her roughing and pressing her against the locker door. With one hand, I tangle my fingers into her hair, with the other, I outline the curve of her breast.

Show the bitch right.

For a moment, I almost turn my head to see if she's still there, but as Jackie slips her hot little fingers under my shirt, I can't find a reason to why I should even care.

--

_Hey guys! My name's Joanna and I absolutely **love** the Troyella pairing - why can't there be a Troy for everyone? lol:) _

_Well, this is my first time writing fanfiction, so please, please, please review. I'd love to hear what you have to say about the story so far, what you want to see, and any constructive criticism._

_I hope you enjoyed reading, and stay tuned for another chapter in the near future._


	2. Vindictive

The world is a cold, lonely place to be without a best friend to warm you up and lead the way.

I know I'm lucky to have her, and I tell her so. She laughs and shakes her head.

Kelsi is running her fingers through my tangled ponytail, inserting bobby pin after bobby pin into my thick, unruly curls. "You know Gabriella, you really do have beautiful hair. It's got a personality of its own."

I twist my head sharply and throw her a nasty look before turning my attention back to the Chemistry textbook on my lap. "You know how much I hate my hair. It's like a freaky, furry animal decided to die on my hair and stay there – permanently." I sigh as I hear her tinkly giggle once more, and I'll never tell her, but I secretly love the tender way she always complements me. She never ceases to make me smile.

"Gabriella, you're actually quite pretty. If I was a man…"

"I'd wish you were my homework, so that I could slam you on the table and do you _all night long_." I finish her sentence with shake of my head. Cut all that warm fuzziness. I've got a pretty weird best friend who has a fetish for nerdy pickup lines. She insists it's all part of her charm.

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and leans back to check her masterpiece with a satisfied grin. "You know, Gabby, you're pretty hot."

I roll my eyes and quickly pull the tiny pins out of my hair, letting my hair re-frizz and poof out into its normal beehive, dead squirrel state. Kelsi was the beautiful one, the pretty one in all the shy, accidental, unconscious ways I'd never been blessed with. Her sparkling green eyes, honey-tinted hair, delicate features. And I guess, I was happy being boring old me, with tangled hair and eyes too big for my face. It was who I was, and I wouldn't change me for the world.

My eyes stray to her hair, silky and golden, and I'm suddenly reminded of earlier today, with Troy and his bleached-blonde girlfriend, and the cruelty in his eyes. I didn't know a guy could be so… unhuman, so cold, so infuriating. Something about him make me want to slap the smirk off his face and knee him _hard_… down there.

"Hey… Kels. Do you know Troy Bolton?"

Her hands still on my hair and she spends a moment faux-thinking. "Um, let me think, Gabs. He's only the most beautiful manslut in our entire school. I don't think any girl in this country doesn't know who he is."

"Well… he's such an asshole! During lunch today, when I went to put my books in my locker, him and his girlfriend were basically procreating in full view of everyone else. Like, hardcore sex with clothes. I asked them, _politely_, to move, and Troy gets all up in my face, pushing and shoving. He's so retardedly cruel, and something about him makes me want to _scream_."

"Scream, like, breathily? Like, a naked scream?"

"Um, no, Kels. Scream like, I want to rip something off of him and wear it as a hat."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, I do get that whole, _"sexy, blue-eyed manwhore"_ vibe from him, personally. I mean, he's pretty gorgeous, Gabriella."

"So what? I actually don't find him attractive at all. He's so… malicious. He's vindictive, and nasty, and spiteful."

"Well, if he shoved you around, something must be seriously wrong with him. Why must all the painfully good-looking guys have male genitalia where their faces should be? Why are all the nice guys shitfaced ugly?"

Did I mention that I'm _so_ lucky to have a best friend who understands me?

I sniff the air, and the ashy, burning quality makes me smile.

"Kels, did you try to make mac 'n cheese again?"

"Hmm… yeah. Why, Gabs?"

"Uh… do something for me, will you? Take a deep, long breath."

I giggle at her snorky, nasally inhalation and the way she pauses, unsure.

"Why does it smell like burning cheese?"

A beat.

"Oh God!"

Seconds later, the fire alarm goes off, and I hear loud swearing from the kitchen. "Shit! Crap! Fuck!"

I lean back against the pillows and smile, curling up against the headboard with my Chem textbook beside me.

Yes, best friends do make a world of difference.

It's me and Kels against the world, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

**change of view**

"So, did you fuck her yet?" Chad Danforth shoves a hand through his unruly hair while blocking a pass from Jason with his other hand.

I laugh and intercept, winding around other the players of the other team and launching the basketball in the air. _Swish_. It's shirts versus skins, and of course, I'm one of the skins. I can feel the sweat rolling down my bare back and I flex my arms in triumph, mostly for the benefit of the hot cheerleaders giggling in the front row of bleachers.

Chad just wouldn't let up. "No, seriously, man. Did you?"

"Chad! What the fuck do you think, man? We haven't even left the school yet. Give me time." Troy shook his head a bit, letting his hair fall into his eyes before throwing a wink at Jackie, who was sitting in such a way so that she could expose as much tanned thigh as possible. He smirked as she visibly melted.

"But you are, right? You're gonna fuck her?"

Damn it, why are best friends so fucking annoying?

"Yes, Chad. Why else would I be hanging out with her? For the pleasure of her company? For our intelligent conversations?" I throw a patronizing glare at his direction, and he shoves his shoulder against mine, gently.

"Troy, are you alright? You seem kind of…"

"More cruel than usual?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Chad, it's precious that you care, but never, ever start a pep talk with me. I'm not a fucking girl."

"But you will be fucking one, right? Later tonight?"

I smile at the easy change of conversation and I nod, sure of myself.

"I always get what I want."

Zeke throws the ball to me again, and I shut up for a moment, positioning my body so that sweat falls in all the right places. Eyes on Jackie's upper thighs, I catch and set up a lay up, not even watching as the ball sinks through the hoop, all net. It always does. I always do.


	3. Rehearsed

To be honest, I never really wanted her to begin with.

She was beautiful, blonde, brainless. An easy lay. Almost effortless, really. All it took was a flash of blue eyes, the heat of hands against her waist, and a few mumbled deceptions for her to spread her legs for me.

And she felt good. Curves in all the right places: a round, supple ass, a set of perky breasts, a flat expanse of stomach, tanned legs that went on for miles. Long blonde hair that brushed against my chest as she leaned over me, grunting and panting, her moans soft and whiny. She was a mewling kitten below me as we moved together in a dusty corner of the boys' locker, sweat sticking our bodies together, our fingers tangled in the space between back and ass, eyes closed and somewhere else.

She was good at this, almost too good. She mewled at all the right times, panted with the consistency of a porn whore, and knew exactly where to touch, exactly what to say. It felt rehearsed, like she spent her evenings in her bedroom with her hand trailing against her naked body, whispering a script over and over until it became engraved in everything she did. I think, at one time, she might have been a virgin. Maybe then, she was nervous and shy and trembling, maybe then, she didn't know what to scream to fill in the awkward silence of sweaty bodies slamming together in unison.

When I asked her if she wanted to go somewhere with a bed before she willingly gave herself up to me, she shook her head coyly and said that she'd rather do it quick and easy. She didn't want a bed, roses, candlelight, or even a declaration of some kind of broken emotion. "You know this doesn't mean anything, right?" she whispered as she unclasped her front of her lacy blue bra and revealed herself to my hungry gaze as though she hadn't done this a million times before, with a million different boys wearing a million different faces. She looked up at me with virgin eyes as she trailed her fingers down my back and brushed her lips against my cheek, whispering, "It's just a game, Troy."

I knew all about this game. I'd been playing it my whole life.

That's why, when I pushed into her wetness for the last time and heard her whisper someone else's name into my neck, I didn't even flinch. I just rolled over, palmed her breast slowly and asked her how she lived with herself, you know, being such a slut.

She laughed at me and leaned forward, her legs open, her juices glistening on the inside of her creamy white thighs. "You didn't seem to mind when you were inside me, screaming my name." She was such a horny little bitch. And she wasn't even tight. She stuck her index finger into her mouth and sucked, the slow, tantalizing motion of her tongue pulling something deep within my gut as I fought the urge to break her nose with my fist.

Instead, I pulled her closer to me, blocking out her stupid laughter as I gripped her perfect ass cheeks and pushed into her for a second round.

**change of view**

"_Oooooh…you love him! You wanna marry him! You wanna buy babies with him!"_

"_Shut up, stupid! Why are you so stupid?" Eight-year-old Gabriella sent her most menacing version of a scowl Kelsi's way as she trudged her way to school, hiking her pink backpack further up her tiny frame. It was raining today, and she'd decided to wear her new yellow raincoat, the one with a Beauty and the Beast sticker stuck on the back. Her purple rain boots made a delicious "schmuck schmuck" sound as she lifted them from the mud, and her carefully braided pigtails were already frizzing. Her large brown eyes sparkled with annoyance as she heard Kelsi's laughter behind her._

"_Gabby and Mark… sitting in a tree…" _

"_I'm so gonna punch you in the face, Kelsi."_

"_K-I-S-S…"_

"_Seriously. I'm going to kick you in the butt."_

"_I-N-G!"_

_Kelsi squealed as Gabriella suddenly pinned her to the nearest tree, her fingers dangerously close to Kelsi's giggling face._

"_You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to pull out your eyeballs."_

"_Ew, Gabby! Gross."_

"_Well, you were the one who opened up your big ugly mouth about Mark. And you don't even sing good. Yup, I think you deserve to be blind for the rest of your life."_

"_Gab-by! I'm sorry..." Kelsi whined, stamping her foot in a pile of damp and moldy autumn leaves. "It's just, the way you make moony eyes at him, it's so funny!"_

"_I do not make moony eyes at him!"_

"_Sure you do. And whenever he talks to you, your face turns into a big fat tomato, and your voice goes all high and weird-like."_

"_Shut up, dumbo!"_

"_It's truuuuuuuuuuue."_

"_No it's not, fatso!"_

"_You know I'm right. Gabby has a cru-ush! Gabby has a cru-ush!"_

"_Shut. Up!"_

"_Do you think he's cute?"_

_A pause._

"_Gabby?"_

"_He's alright. You know – if you're into that."_

"_What's 'that'?"_

"_You know, brown eyes, yellow hair, big smile. That' that'."_

"_So, are you into 'that'?" Kelsi pushed her face closer to Gabby's, her breath coming out in short pants as she struggled to understand what was wrong with her best friend. "Cuz, you know he has cooties, right?"_

"_No he doesn't. He… touched my hand once, when he asked for answers for his homework. And it didn't feel weird… it felt… nice."_

_Kelsi let out an exasperated sigh as she slid down the truck of the tree and settled her bum on the crinkly leaves that blanketed the wet ground. Gabriella soon followed her, and they sat side by side, backs against the ripply bark of the tree._

"_So, do you love him?"_

_Another pause._

"_Yeah, basically."_

_Kelsi patted Gabriella's mittened hand with her own. _

"_You know, if you ever get cooties, we can never be friends again, right?"_

"_Yeah, I know."_

"_Good. So do you still like him?"_

_Gabriella blinked her brown eyes, once, twice. She brushed her hair away from her cheeks and studied the butterflies on her rain boots._

"_Not so much… I like you better."_

"_Good." Kelsi turned and threw herself into Gabriella's arms, falling facefirst into the crumpled leaves surrounding them. Gabriella laughed and hit Kelsi's scrawny little butt with her plastic Cinderella lunch box._

"_Ow!"_

"_I told you I'd kick your butt."_

_Kelsi pulled the leaves and twigs out of her hair and glanced at Gabriella with serious green eyes._

"_We're best buds forever, okay?"_

"_Okay, Kelsi."_

Gabriella wiped the sleep from her eyes and stared at the glaring red numerals on her beside clock: 1 o'clock in the morning. She smiled nostalgically for a moment, letting the cleanness of her childhood settle into her bones for a moment before she closed her eyes once more and drifted off to sleep, her fingers curled at her sides in an almost prayer. Before the last flicker of consciousness emptied from her mind, she realized that her dream reminded her of Troy somehow, and she wandered into her deep, dreamless sleep wondering why.

**A/N:** Yay! Thank you alllllll for reviewing – you guys are awesome. Your suggestions and comments are really important to me, and everytime I read a new one, my whole face lights up. Since this is my first story, your reviews are really helping me. Thanks so much, guys – and keep them rollin' in:)


	4. Freak

I throw myself headfirst into schoolwork because it's the one thing I'm good at, the one thing I can launch into and be assured that I'll succeed. There's no risk involved, no fear of failure. It's what people respect about me, or at least understand about me. I'm sure if anyone outside of my small circle of friends even knew my name, the only thing they'd know about me was that I'm a straight-A student. And they wouldn't say it with traces of envy or cruelty – it's simply a well-established fact. I, Gabriella Montez, am a nerd.

Perhaps if I were prettier, more athletic, or more charming, people would overlook my intelligence and simply tell others that it was a part of the package, as opposed to the whole deal. If I think long and hard about the entire situation, I guess it's pretty depressing, but I'd rather not dwell on how pathetic I really am. If I hide behind my books and grades and a shy, unassuming exterior, people will overlook me, move on to better prospects. And that's exactly what I want them to do. I want to fade to black, blend into the crowd, meld with my surroundings.

That's why, when Troy pushed me up against the lockers, I could feel something quick and hot flash against my ribcage, something like tears filling up along my eyelids. Everything I'd worked so hard to upkeep, everything I tried so hard to salvage, he'd ripped away with a few harsh words and biting glances. This was exactly what I tried to avoid: being singled out, being picked on, being humiliated. Being hurt. Putting myself out there by being polite and considerate, only to have all my petty idealism shoved back into my face. Every single optimistic expectation that I had about the world crumbled into ashes when I stared into his eyes. The coldness there, the death, the cruelty, stunned me beyond words. He was so – harsh. I still shiver when I think about his eyes: icy blue, haunting, bottomless. The way he brushed his hand against my hair, almost adoringly, before shoving my books into the floor. His capacity to hate someone that he didn't even know the name of. The way he laughed in my face, spittle flying from his mouth, scorn tipping the corners of his lips into a half-smirk. The way his fingers, hot and strong, pressed hard against my shoulder blades. He didn't even know me, and I could already tell by his trembling fists that he was ready to pop my nose if I even breathed the wrong way.

His ability to hurt and hate scares me in the deepest of ways. All I know is that if I see that blur of muscular shoulder and dark shaggy hair again, I'm gonna run in the opposite direction as fast as my legs can possibly take me. There's no way I'm getting caught –

Something rustles in the corner, and my eyes are drawn to Chad Danforth's dimpled smile as he shuffles into the tutoring centre with a basketball cradled underneath one of his arms, his backpack swinging haphazardly from one shoulder. His sheepish grin and twinkling brown eyes set something off in my heart, and I swallow thickly to rid myself of the sweet taste on my tongue as he approaches. By some freakish act of God, I was assigned to be his tutor when his grades slipped last year, since our school's basketball team only accepts honours students. Thank God for that regulation. Chad Danforth is a hunk of salty goodness, let me tell you. Chocolate eyes, soft hair, the kindest smile I've ever seen, and the uncanny ability to make anyone, even social outcasts like me, feel perfectly comfortable in his presence.

"Gabriella, guess who got an A- on his history midterm?" Chad hurriedly slips off his backpack and flops himself into the chair beside me, his basketball tucked between his foot and the leg of his chair. His fingers are drumming impatiently against the tabletop as he waits for my response. Did I mention that his hands are beautiful? Possibly the best-looking pairs of hands I've ever seen.

The excitement in his eyes makes me laugh, and I nudge him playfully. "I didn't know marks that good were possible for lunkheaded basketball players like you."

Chad sticks out his tongue and shoves me back with a grin. "Geez, Gabriella, we're not all geniuses like you. But I've gotta say, I'm pretty damn happy with my A-." There's a pause as he tilts his head and glances at me with a half-smile. "Thanks a lot for helping me, Gabriella. I don't know how I'd survive this year without you." Suddenly, out of nowhere, he slides his arm around me in an easy hug, and I can instantly smell the musk of his cologne. I swallow again, and shake myself. _Breathe_. I've never been this flaky and disoriented with other guys, and the newness of the experience unnerves me.

And so, I do the only thing I'm good at doing, other than homework. I talk.

"What can I say? It's my duty as a nerd to share my knowledge with all who are willing."

"You're such a freak, Gabriella."

"That's why you like me so much."

"Yeah, you're freakishness is what makes you so endearingly cute."

"Bah! You did not just call me cute. And I'm so proud… you used the word "endearingly" in a sentence! But… you're dead wrong, buddy. I am evil, menacing, intimidating. Not cute!" I bare my teeth and furrow my eyebrows a little to get me him believe me.

"Gabriella, just admit it. You're cute. Like a newborn kitten. Like a baby rhino. Like a stray puppy." His eyes are bright with laughter, and I fight the urge to trace his smile with my fingers.

"Wait. Did you just call me a hobo? Did you just make a rhino reference?!"

"Chill Gabs. It's metaphorical."

"Huh. I bet you don't even know what that means, Mr. Smart ass."

"True. That's why I have you to tutor me."

"And if I didn't?"

"I'd be screwed."

"Now do you realize the power I hold over you?"

"Hmm. It's all becoming clear to me. So basically, if I piss you off, I'm gonna fail out of high school. If I'm nice to you, I'm stuck with you." Chad shudders, and the expression of strong disgust in his features makes me laugh lightly. He's such a little butt. "So to sum it up, it's a lose-lose situation. You know what, Gabriella?"

"What?"

"I take it back. You're not cute at all. In fact, I think I'd go as far to call you a little bitchy."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mmm hmm. And that's on a good day."

"Chad! You are sooooooo dead, mister." I poke him insistently with my index finger and shove him a little under the table. He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh and takes hold of my arm, trying to get me to stop prodding his arm.

"And you are so annoying."

"Bah! Better to be annoying than dead."

"You are such a weirdo."

"Hey, at least I don't play basketball."

Chad takes hold my wrist with both of his hands, and to my delight, he keeps his fingers there, lightly touching the skin of my forearms. "That was a low blow, Gabriella. A really, really low blow." He stares deep into my eyes, almost seriously, and brings his face closer to mine, so close that I can see each and every single one of his dark eyelashes. I let out an accidental breath and zone out a little on the way my name rolls off his tongue. So perfectly. Like it belonged there.

I focus on Chad's lips, and what he's saying, just as he pounces on me, his fingers tickling at my sides. I wrench out of his grasp, flailing wildly as his teasing touches push me to break out into uncontrollable giggles. I love the way he makes me feel, the nervous schoolgirl way my body reacts to every little thing he does. Even now, as he tickles me, my heart is doing somersaults and little back flips in my chest, and I can already feel my cheeks burning into a deep shade of scarlet.

When he finally relents, I breathe heavily to calm myself down and give him what I hope to be some serious cut eye. "I hate you," I tell him matter-of-factly, and he chuckles richly in response.

He must know it's not true. Isn't it obvious?

**change of view**

A new blonde clings to the arm of my letter jacket, and this time, I don't even bother remembering what her name is. She's bright and bubbly, spilling over the top with how exceedingly stupid she really is. She's already asked me whether people from Norway spoke Norweiganese, whether cows really crap out cheese, and whether I loved her. What fuckface. If she wasn't so hot, and if I hadn't already bedded half the blonde population at East High, I'd have overlooked her in a second. But when demand exceeds supply, beggars can't be choosers. She has a great body, but something about her face, maybe the caked-on tan or the way she twists her mouth when she laughs, makes me want to punch her. Mostly though, it's her voice. It has a high, shrieky consistency to it, and when she speaks, her lip curls up and shows the tops of her pink, pink gums. Her teeth are bluish white, and her hair is the colour of over-baked straw. Actually, now that I think about it, the bitch is actually pretty fucking ugly. I move to shake her off my arm, but she chooses that exact moment to tug down her low-cut top, exposing the perfect amount of silky golden cleavage. I decide I'll keep her. I mean, with breasts like that, and who am I to complain?

I turn to her sharply and grab and handful of her hair in my hand. "Shut up for a second, okay? I can't hear myself think with your stupid voice." The chick thinks it's a comeon or complement, and the depth of her idiocy amazes me. Can bitches really be so dumb? She sidles up closer to me, draping herself against my chest, but Jesus Christ, as least she's quiet.

Chad asked me to pick him up from the tutoring centre earlier after school so that we could grab a bite to eat and then shoot some hoops at his place. As we near the third hallway, where the tutoring centre is located, I wonder why Chad even goes for tutoring to begin with. His marks are leaps and bounds higher than mine, and my dad would never, ever kick him off the team, even if he was failing. But I guess Chad takes pride in his work, something I've never really cared for outside of basketball. Skill and talent take me further than dedication and perseverance ever have. But I guess we kind of compliment each other that way. We're pretty much the most opposite people you could possibly meet. Most of the time, we clash and fight. But sometimes, in these brief, brief moments, we understand each other with crystal clear clarity when no one else can. And it's because of these moments that we've lasted over 10 years of friendship. He's the one guy I let myself connect on any level with, and even then, I'm not stupid. I know not to put myself out there completely and totally, because people who are dumb enough to do that only end up being crushed and trampled in the end.

I tap on the door once, twice, and the girl next to me pipes up, "What? Are you worried about awakening the nerds or something?" The fact that she can string together that many words together coherently surprises me, and I smirk in appreciation, drawing her close to my chest, letting her hair cling to my jacket for a moment. My fingers trail closer to the expanse of skin between her belt and the hem of her shirt, tracing light circles. "You know, Heather, I've never met someone quite as hot and funny as you." The lie falls easily from lips, and I fight the urge to shudder when I see the emergence of her gums. She laughs desperately, clawing her fingers at my arm, telling me something like that's not her name, but she's free tonight. I open the door and tell her to wait outside, that's she's actually pretty infuriating, but I'll see what I can do about rearranging my schedule. I don't turn back to see her expression, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't understand what I mean.

I hear Chad's laughter immediately, and my eyes flicker to a round table in the far corner, closest to the windows. His afro screams out like a beacon amidst other quiet, studious heads leaning over their homework at other tables. A small girl is sitting next to him, and she's talking softly, smiling. I can see her face turn in my direction, and her entire posture immediately freezes, her words dying on her lips. I swagger closer to their table, brushing the hair absentmindedly from eyes, trying to figure out what the girl's problem is. Something about the way she looks away catches Chad's attention, and he turns his face, nodding his head in acknowledgement when he sees me.

"Hey, man. What's up?"

I hook my fingers in the belt loops of my jeans and stay focussed on the girl, trying to figure her out. "Who's she?"

"Oh, this is my tutor, Gabriella. Gabriella…"

"Troy. I know. Everyone in this school knows who you are."

Something about her voice is familiar, the softness of it, the warm, open quality of her words. But she's pissed, I can tell. Her eyes are sharp, and her fingers are clenching the edge of the table. At the same time, she's tilting back, trying to appear smaller than she actually is, trying to disappear.

Chad glances between us, back and forth, feeling the tension in the air. Personally, I don't know what the bitch's fucking problem is.

"Have we met before? 'Cuz you seem to have a stick lodged pretty far up your ass."

Her eyes flash, and she bites her lower lip softly. "You seriously don't remember me?"

I shake my head, trying to place her. Small, bright features, olive skin, and thick, curly dark hair. Nope, all the girls I remember, if I remember them at all, are blonde, or some variety of it. I'm amused that she seems disappointed, or maybe a bit pissed off.

"No. Do I have a reason to?"

"Let me take you back to yesterday. Humour me. You, and random blonde girl, having dry sex against my locker. Me, politely asking you guys to move. You, shoving me and swearing in my face. Me, humiliated. Ring any bells?"

I glance at her again, and something about her hair, the soft curls, reminds me. The shy girl. The one with the shaky, trembling voice. The one who almost cried when I shoved her against the lockers. What a little pussy.

"You're the one that almost cried in the middle of the hallway, right?"

"Shut up, Troy."

"You have got to be kidding me! A girl who tutors in a place like this, and that's the best comeback you can think of?"

"You know, I see your lips moving, and sound is coming out. This can never be good."

Chad seems shocked, his jaw hanging open a bit as he takes in our conversation. "You two know each other?" He asks, a bit slow on the uptake.

"Unfortunately," both of us mutter, and the look she gives me is almost cutely painful, in a really warped and twisted kind of way. I don't think her tiny little face is capable of portraying the emotion she's trying to give off, and I almost laugh at her valiant effort.

"You mind telling me what that face is supposed to mean?"

"It's my pissed off face. When you see this face… shut up."

"Uh, it just looks like you're extreeeeeeemely constipated. And is 'shut up' seriously the only fucking comeback you have?"

Gabriella shifts her eyes quickly to Chad, and something about his expression causes her to look away just as quickly. She pushes the hair out of her eyes and stands up, and I'm reminded of how small she really is, tiny and delicate-looking like a porcelain doll. The bite and sass, on the other hand, is something different altogether. She pisses me off, and something about girls who piss me off intrigue me, possibly because every other girl I've known has latched onto me like a sucking leech and worshipped the ground I walk on. Meeting someone a little different is startling, and I'm pretty sure I hate her already. Her fiery little glares, her balled up fists, the cutting edge to all of her retorts. But there she is, a paradox, staring softly at my best friend and apologizing with a flutter of her eyelashes, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder before gathering her loose papers and sending me one last, furious glance.

"I hate you."

And I don't doubt her for the world.

"We have that in common, then." I take four ground-eating steps towards her and smile in satisfaction as she shrinks back a little, lowering her lashes, and shifting her weight nervously. I tug at her hair, revelling in the way she flinches. The sass is gone, and now all I see is wearied exhaustion. She doesn't want to play this game anymore. She just wants to leave, to disappear, to stop this retarded conversation and get on with her life, whatever that entails. Something twists in my ribcage, and suddenly, I find myself saying, "Always a pleasure, Gabriella." The scent of her perfume, light and citrusy, clings to the air for just moment, and as I breathe deep and turn towards Chad's questioning gaze, I wonder why I remembered her name.

_**A/N**__: Aww… you guys are spoiling me! Thanks for the reviews. Reviews really encourage me to pop out the updates quicker, and I tried to make this chapter a bit longer as a gift to you guys, my way of saying "thanks". How do you guys like the way the story is so going so far? What would you like to say? Constructive criticism is welcomed, and some warm-fuzzy reviews are always good :). I really take your suggestions to heart guys, and I'm already tweaking my plotline a little bit to fall in line with certain ideas. You guys are too great!_

_Please, please, please, keep reviewing. For my first story, I'm so glad with the feedback I've received. It's really encouraging. Thanks again!_


	5. Detached

I swear to God, I have the worst freakin' luck in the entire world.

My favourite class, English, is taught by the craziest, most eccentrically insane teacher in our entire school. She's absolutely nuts. She's about fifty-something, she wears the same polyester pants every single day, and she always outlines her mouth with bright red lipstick. I'm pretty sure she's psychic. Her bracelets jangle when she walks, and I swear, when she glares at you over her gold-rimmed glasses, human flesh liquefies. She scares the crap out of me.

But, my bad luck doesn't even end there. Oh no, it gets better. Troy Bolton, manslut extraordinare, sits directly across from me in English. Until about three days ago, he wasn't even aware of my existence. But since I scored high on his piss-o-meter, I've become the latest object of his torture. He's played every game in the book, pushed every button he knows how, and he has this uncanny ability to know exactly what to say to get me riled up. Thankfully, he has his hands full right now, in more than one way. A leggy blonde is wrapped around him, and they're furiously making out, in full view of everyone. I sigh quietly with relief and focus on the questions before me based on A Midsummer Night's Dream, the play that we're currently studying in English.

Soft panting interrupts my thoughts, and I look up just in time to see Troy pop open the first the buttons of her blouse and slide his hand in with a half-smirk. He's looking directly at me as he does it, his eyes sparkling as he fondles her beneath her shirt, his tongue touching his lower lip briefly as he whispers something in her hair, his eyes still on me, on the blush that stretches across my cheeks. She's hissing in pleasure and laughing desperately and trailing her fingers against his jawbone all at once, and she melts against him as he tangles his fingers at the base of her neck. I quickly lower my lashes, shocked at the blatant intimacy of their actions, at the intensity of his eyes, at the way he raises his eyebrow at me tauntingly, goading me on. At the sight of his tanned fingers sliding in through her opened shirt and cupping warm flesh, at the way pinkness of his tongue as he leaned forward, teasing. I hide my shaking fingers by stuffing them into the pockets of my favourite pair of jeans, and something about the entire situation makes me feel sick to my stomach.

That's not how sex is supposed to be, or at least how I think it's supposed to be. Not that I know anything about the area, other than the opinion of a few well-worn romance novels, but the whole physicality of their groping suprises me, unnerves me. It was all pant, touch, skin, flesh, squeeze, hiss, whisper. Nothing soft and personal about it. Everything was fumbling hands, practiced lines - they didn't even look at each other, once. It seemed so detached, so distant, like they were working on autopilot or something. I pick up my pen and doodle a bird on the side of my question sheet, and as I sketch feather, wing, beak, and flight, I'm pretty sure the blonde tangled up against Troy now is not the same as the one who was dryhumping him against my locker. Somehow, I'm not even suprised. After all, they're all the same person: same expensive hair, same perfect makeup, same whiny laugh and desperate touch and broken desire for any sign of affection. The way she leaned forwards, clinging tight to the collar of his shirt, the way she wanted to show him as much skin as possible in order to keep him interested. I mean, isn't all that touching supposed to be soft, intimate, sweet, tender?

I can feel his blue gaze on me once more, the taunting way he's urging me to raise my eyes to his, to take in whatever other graphic imagery he's trying to offer, to see what other line he's dared to cross. To realize that I will never, ever be that girl in his arms, that I'm too prudish, too stuck up, too weirdly modest and stupidly idealistic. That this kind of relationship will never be mine, that he's playing a game that for once, he doesn't want me to join. And for that, I'm grateful. I'll never lower myself to that, to a panting heap of open blouse and half-opened eyes, to a mess of tousled hair and kiss-stained lips. I'm not that kind of girl. He doesn't even know me, but he already knows it's the truth. I guess in that way, he knows more about me than anyone ever has.

I hear Blondie's sharp intake of breath, and I pretty sure I hear the brush of skin against thigh, of denim against zipper, of eyelash against cheek, and suddenly, the room is suffocating, too small for that kind of game. He's still watching, observing the rise and fall of my shoulders, the unsteady grasp of my pen, the way I'm staring, unfocussed, at the page before me, pretending that he's not affecting me, that he's not tearing away whatever decency and propriety I have with every button he pops open. He wants me to see this, to see them, to hate him for what he has the guts to do. But he doesn't realize that I already have, that I already do. Under the desk, he kicks my shin sharply with his leg and forces me to look up, to look him in eye. His childish need for attention almost makes me laugh. As I raise my eyes up to meet his, I channel every piece of anger I feel for him, every shred of disgust I drape him with, every bloody thought I've ever thought about him into my eyes, hoping that for once, he'll leave me alone and get out of my life. Something about the way I look at him makes him suddenly pull away from her, clenching the front of her blouse tightly, pushing her off his lap and onto the floor. He runs his fingers through his hair. He wipes his mouth and chin. He has the decency to look away when he still sees me staring. 


	6. Confronted

Sometimes, I entertain the thought that underneath it all, I'm really a good guy. You know, the run-of-the-mill misunderstood rebel with a cause, hiding a heart of gold beneath layers and layers of insecurities.

But really, I'd just be lying to myself.

Because deep, deep down, I know that there's really nothing pure or kind or inspiring about me. If you cut me up and peeled off layers of skin and tissue and blood and cells, all you'd be left with in the end is a gaping hole of nothingness. I'm crude. I'm mean. I'm selfish. I'm sadistic. If I hadn't been blessed with blue eyes and a muscular build, I'm pretty sure I'd be the guy that every girl would hate. Thankfully, the wheel of fortune turned in my favour, and I'm pretty damn attractive – and to most people in the world, that's all that matters.

But beyond that, I'm pretty much the snivelling, rotten-faced kid you used to hate in elementary school. You know, the guy who would disfigure the smiling faces in science textbooks, the kid who'd throw paper airplanes at the teacher, the guy who'd pull your hair when you weren't looking and then point the finger of blame to the unassuming kid beside you. The guy who'd trip you in the cafeteria and laugh as you slipped on your butt, the kid who'd write nasty words on the bathroom stalls before you even knew what they meant, the kid who'd end up getting no construction paper Valentines on February the 14th.

That's who I am. And I could tell you that I'm gonna change, that it's all for show, that if you really got to know me, I'm someone completely different, someone completely worth getting to know. And you'd believe me, because I'd shake my dark hair into my eyes, trail my fingers against your neck, and let you feel the strength of my arms as you leaned into me. You'd believe me because I'm handsome and muscular and every girl's fantasy, because every word coming from my mouth must be the truth, that eyes as blue as mine could never lie. And I'd let you, because deep, deep down, further down than I'd ever care to admit, I want you to think there's something good in me. Something worth saving.

I live for the moment. I live for the flash of feminine eyes and the purr of moans in dark corners, for the feel of bare skin against fingers that have played this game too many times. I love the way girls lean into me for pleasure, the way they want me, the way they need me. The way they whisper my name with their soft, soft voices, almost reverently, almost lovingly. If I close my eyes and let myself feel, sometimes I imagine that the girl underneath me hasn't done this hundreds of times before. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have a girl who actually saw something good in me. Sometimes, I realize that I'm being a dumb ass, and that boys like me will never get girls like her, whoever "her" is. Sometimes, I stop thinking, because thinking is painful, because it's easier to act as though I'm cold, hard, dead. It's easier to smile with my mouth than my eyes, easier to say words than feel them, easier to thrust and moan and touch than to have a conversation.

My favourite part of sex is right before it actually happens. The teasing. The touching. The whispered words. The desperate feel of mouth against skin, the sound of heavy panting. The expectation. After that, everything else is pretty much a letdown. I mean, there's not that much to it. In, out, repeat. And every girl is exactly the same, feels exactly the same. But the familiarity of it comforts me, reassures me. The way I know, at the end of it all, I'll pull up my jeans and move to leave, and she'll cling to my arm, pathetically, asking me why. Asking me why did I fuck her if I didn't even love her? I'd laugh in her face, run my fingers through blonde and say, because it felt good. Because I can. Because you'll always be willing to spread your legs for me, because that's who you are. Because looking too long at your face makes me sick, and I've had better, and can't you take the hint and leave, bitch?

And you'll run away in tears, and I'll smile, because even though I don't have a heart, I still have the power to affect you. And in a way, doesn't that prove something? Doesn't that make you feel intimidated?

So when you look at me, at my eyes and skin and smile and hair, trying to find some redeeming qualities, don't search too deep. Because everything's right at the surface. You know I'll break your heart into a billion pieces, you know that I'll just abuse and misuse you, and you'll come back for more anyway, because I'm just that kind of guy.

**change of view**

"You know, my entire perspective of you has skyrocketed in the entirely wrong direction." I almost let myself smile at the way Chad's eyes widen a little, the pout he gives me as he tries to remember what he did wrong, why I'm being so sulky with him today.

"What did I do?" He reaches out to touch my hair, and I whisper _still_ to my heart. He's got to be the most perfect guy in the world. Well, at least in East High. Well… at least, compared to **him**__

"I mean, I know opposites attract and everything, but how the hell do you get stuck with Troy Bolton as a best friend. I mean, were all the other kids on the playground already paired up or something? Were you on crack? Did you drink a little funny juice before you agreed to be all buddy-buddy with him?" I push his hand from my hair, but don't have the nerve to look him in the eye. His sneakered foot brushes against mine my mistake, and I suddenly have the urge to trail my fingers against his arm, to kiss the tiny mole on his chin, to run my hands through his magnificent hair. To forget about English class, to show Chad that love doesn't have to be that way. That we could take it slow, make it last. And I know that I don't love him, or even really like him, but he's such a sweet, sweet guy, and he makes me feel like I'm worth something. As cheesy as it sounds, I like spending time with him, and sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to press my lips against his.

"Gabriella, come on. He's not that bad." The look I give him shuts him up for a second, and he grins sheepishly before adding, "… most of the time." I sigh and cross my arms against my chest in a huff, my breath lifting the bangs on my forehead.

"He's such a little dick, Chad. I don't know why you defend him so much. I understand that he's your friend, but I don't get _why_. I mean, I didn't do anything to set him off, and now he seems to be on this mission to ruin my life as many times over as possible. He's always trying to embarrass me, to push my buttons, to see how I'll let him go before I snap. He's so…. infuriating! Gah!"

"Gabby, he's my best friend, and deep down, he's not a bad guy. He's had a rough go at life, and he's under a lot more pressure than people understand. I'm not excusing him for what he's doing to you, but you have to admit, you have thrown him for a loop."

"What do you mean? I swear to God, Chad – I didn't do anything wrong! It's not my fault that I don't think he's God's gift to womankind…"

"But that's just it, don't you see? You challenge him. You tell him what's on your mind. You're not like every other girl, Gabriella. He's never had to answer to anyone in his life, and suddenly, he's got this girl who actually calls him up on his mistakes. The truth is, most girls _do_ see him as God's gift – and you're probably the first person who hasn't. That's a lot for a guy to handle."

I love the way his mouth moves when he speaks, the way he leans forward when he's passionate about something, the intensity of his eyes. I'd take chocolate brown over blue any day. He's still speaking, still touching my arm, trying to convince me, but I'm still stuck on what he said before: _You're not like every other girl_. But, couldn't he see! I was! I wanted him to grab my hand and sweep me off my feet and tell me I was beautiful. I know he meant it as a sort of compliment, but I wish, for once, he wouldn't see me as smart-tutor Gabriella, but as a girl he'd maybe like, a girl he'd maybe miss. A girl he'd write poetry for, a girl he'd get intense-eyed about.

Chad's quiet now, and he's staring at me, thoughtfully.

"Troy's scared of you, of what you represent. He's not a bad person, not really. Once you get to know him, once he gets over the fact that you don't jump when he tells you to, I think he'll surprise you."

What I want right now, more than anything in the world, is for Chad to surprise me. To kiss me on the cheek, to squeeze my hand, to complement the way my eyelashes fall against my cheek when I read, the way my nose crinkles when I smile. I want him to notice me, to look past me, to see me. To realize, that behind the bare face and plain features, behind the crazy, wacky hair and the too-big eyes, there's someone worth getting to know, worth falling for, worth giving a second glance.

"I'm past the point of surprise, Chad. I've never met a guy as cruel as him, ever. He's the kind of guy who watches baby ducks drown for pleasure. If you gave me $50 bucks to name off a good quality in him that I've noticed, I'd come out of the deal dead broke and begging for change. Something about him leaves a bad taste in my mouth."

The slightest sign of a furrow creases his forehead, and I can tell he's struggling for the words to say. Just as he opens his mouth, something catches the corner of his eye and he shuts it again. I look up and see Troy swaggering towards us with a self-satisfied smirk on his face, his hands in his pockets, his hair in his eyes. He's wearing a blue sweater that brings the mockery in his eyes, and I feel the sudden urge to shove him roughly, to tell him to get away from me, to get away from us. To take a hint and realize that he's never, ever going to break me, that I'll never, ever change my mind.

He's alone, and the crook of his elbow looks empty without the tanned arms of some blonde tangled through it. He's tall, really tall, I realize, and he could easily beat the crap out of me if he wanted to, and I know he wouldn't even think twice. I swallow as his muscles ripple against his back as he pulls out a chair to sit in across from me, and I think of the strength there, of his ability to hurt me. He frightens me, but I don't show it. Instead, I start to gather up my books.

His fingers shoot out suddenly to encircle my wrists, and his tight grip brings tears to my eyes. He tells me to sit down with his eyes and I do. Chad asks, "What the fuck are you doing man? Leave her alone," but I can tell from his voice that he doesn't really understand his best friend, that sometimes, Troy scares him too.

"Chill, Chad. I'm not gonna hurt her, at least not in full view of everyone else." Troy curls his tongue behind his teeth and I shiver at the blatantly lewd gesture. "Unless, baby, you wanna get hurt. If you do, I can arrange a little…" Chad shoves him forcefully, pushing Troy almost out of his chair, and something warms in my chest at the sight of his flashing eyes. "Troy, seriously. Shut up. She doesn't need this."

I'm quiet, still, staring at his collarbone, refusing to look up at his face, into his eyes. Something about the blueness of them makes me uneasy, makes me want to run away.

"Are you always this bitchy, Gabriella? I'm talking to you. It's rude not to look at me."

"Troy… I've had enough of this, okay? Whatever point you're trying to prove, forget it. I'm not playing. I'm not going to be part of your sick game. You want me to tell you the truth? Looking at you makes me want to hurl. I've never met a guy who's made me feel as hurt and angry as you do. And the worst part is, you don't even care. You think everything's this big, great joke, where you always get to tell the punch line. Well, guess what? This bitch isn't fair game anymore." I get up suddenly, knocking his fingers from my wrist, looking him in the eye and giving him the dirtiest look I can manage. I can feel Chad shift next to me, but I know he'll stay right where he is, next to Troy, wishing he had the nerve to leave with me. In his own way, he's weak, too. He doesn't really have courage, the kind it takes to walk away like I'm going to walk away now. He'll never tell Troy how he feels, because that's just the kind of guy he is. Suddenly, he doesn't seem as attractive. His hands are shaking, and I know that if Troy tells him to jump, he'll ask how high. We're too different. We'll never be compatible. He'll never see me, the real me, and he'll always be looking for something else, someone else. He'll always be too worried about his reputation to realize what was right in front of him. And I realize, I'm tired of waiting.

"Gabriella, sit the fuck back down. You're really pushing me to my limit, okay? I don't know what the fuck your problem is, but you better smarten up. You mean nothing to me, nothing. You wish you could live my life, walk in these shoes. You wish I cared something about you. I know all about you. You're just a girl who's trying to prove something, to make a statement, to try to be different. But in the end, no one will ever remember who you are, because you were never important to begin with. No one will ever remember your name. You'll just be that bitch who always ran away."

"And you're just a boy who's scared that I'm gonna blow your cover. You're freaked out of your mind that I can see right through you, that I know what you're all about. You're scared. But guess what? I don't have time to deal with your insecurities. So this is it. Stay out my life. I'm leaving." I shove my chair back against the table and turn away from them, unshed tears welling up beneath my eyelids. A single tear trails down the curve of my cheek, the bridge of my nose, the crease of my lips, and I can't believe how close he hit. How close he really came to the truth.

And in the end, that just makes me hate him more, the fact that he has that kind of power over me.


	7. Trapped

Kelsi's slender fingers slide over the ivory keys of the piano, beautiful sound filling the entire room with warmth. I'm sitting on a broken blue stool next to her, watching the way her soft face transforms with concentration, observing the way the light hits her paint-chipped nails, loving the way her eyes are bright and focussed. She's absolutely stunning, here, with her piano, her blonde hair creating a sheer curtain against her cheeks. Her slim body is moving with the music, swaying back and forth, building along with every crescendo, falling back with every accented note. Sheets of music crowd the ledge of the piano, and she's not even looking, her eyes speeding past each blackened note to the essence of it all, the place where notes and key signatures and bar lines don't matter, where all that's left is sound, and it's beautiful. Her slippered feet are tapping quietly against the oak floors, and I suddenly want to take a picture of her here, and capture her forever. She licks her lips once, twice, and her fingers still above the keys as she turns towards me.

"What's wrong, Gabs? You're never this quiet." The bench creaks as she leans back, scoots closer to me, her feet barely sliding against the waxed floor.

Something about her eyes, about the way she's looking through me now, reminds me of him, and I bite my tongue quickly, swallowing down the metal tinge of fear I feel in my throat. I close my eyes and pray for black, but all I see is blue.

Eyelids still closed shut, I ask her in a quavering voice, "Kelsi, be honest with me. Am I unimportant?"

There's a pause as she struggles to understand, but that moment of silence, of hesitation, frightens me. "No way, Gabs. No, no, no freaking way. Where the heck did you get that idea to begin with?"

Her response stills my heart for a moment, and I focus on the breath going in and out of my nostrils, on the scent of music still heavy in the air. "What about stubborn? Bitchy?"

I feel her cool hands against mine, interlocking fingers, and I open my eyes to look at our hands, at the way I can't tell where she starts and I where I end. I want to kiss each and every one of her music-making fingers, to tell her how much she means to me. But instead, I whisper, "I'm trying so so hard, Kelsi. Can't you see it? I just want to move on."

I know she understands, because she's pulling me closer now, and my face is buried in her neck, in her hair, and I'm smelling the wildflowery scent of her shampoo, the comforting softness of her sweater underneath my fingertips. Her hands rub the tiniest circles on my back, and before I know it, tears are running down my cheeks and falling onto her shoulders, into her hair, onto her neck. "I don't even know why I walked away, Kels. Why am I so stupid. I think I really really cared about him, still do. He makes me feel special, feel like I belong. But then Troy comes along and ruins absolutely everything. All I want is some time alone, you know, time enough for him to look at me and realize that I'm all he's ever wanted, all he's ever needed. And I know he can, he could, if Troy just stayed out of my life. But he's always pushing, always bringing out the worst in me, and deep down, I know Chad will never do anything to stop him, because he's weak, because he's broken."

I can feel Kelsi tense up, and I can feel my eyelashes drying and sticking together, the coolness of tears fading on my cheeks. I wonder what's wrong, why she's stiff, pulling back and looking into my eyes. "Chad?"

I feel my face burn as I look down at my hands, empty now, folded in my lap. I remember the way his hands felt against mine, absolutely beautiful. Like music. "Yeah, Kelsi. Chad. I could have stayed with him, but I guess my pride pushed me to walk away. Why do I always run away, Kelsi?"

She quiet, running her fingers through my hair, and she tells me I'm beautiful, even with tears in my eyes. I know such a shallowly physical compliment shouldn't make me feel better, shouldn't make me smile, but it does. Then she crosses her legs carefully, sticking her index finger into the tiny hole on the knee of her jeans. "Gabriella, you can't pretend like your life is still the way it was before it happened. You went through something, something incredibly painful, and it takes time for wounds to heal. I know you're strong, Gabby. You're the strongest person I know. But, even strong people need to spend some time just breathing, just thinking. I know you want to get on with your life, but you've been through a lot Gabby. I know Troy's infuriating, and I know, right now, Chad seems to mean the world to you, but I think, right now you need to focus on yourself. Life will still be waiting when you come back."

I shake my head once, twice, and I wish that instead of looking at me with her concerned, serious eyes, she was tugging at my hair, making me laugh, drying the tears off my cheeks and telling me to smarten up, to seize the day. But she's still staring, her fingers pulling at a thread, her tiny face filled with questions, with wisdom, with honesty. And I know she wants to help, but more than anything in the world, I want a reason to laugh.

And it's the honesty that scares me the most. The look in Troy's eyes that made me walk away. Because for the first time since I've met him, he looked alive, he looked real, he looked like he absolutely believed every word flying out from his lips. For once in his life, he looked impassioned, ready to move, tensed and ready for action. And he never looked more honest, more convinced of the truth than when he told me I was a bitch, that I was unimportant. And that kind of honesty scared me, shocked me, pushed me to run away, to turn my back on the only boy I really cared about. And I know Chad would never follow me, never in a million years, but the truth is, I would rather run from Troy than stay with Chad, if that makes any sense at all.

"Is there anything I can do to make it better?" The simplicity of her question makes me smile, and I want to give her the warmest, strongest hug in the world, to tell her that in the end, I'll be alright, that she doesn't have to worry, that I'll take her advice. But I'm tired and drained, and I can't muster up enough energy to put on another show. Instead, I run my hands across my cheeks, gathering moisture, and motion to the piano with my eyes.

"Play, please."

And I know, her music will take me to a place where I can forget, where I can breathe. And hopefully, life will be waiting for me when I decide to open my eyes again.

"Do you really like him, Gabbi?"

For some reason, I can hear weight to her question, and I don't understand why she really cares. I'm reminded of a younger us, of plastic lunchboxes, off-key singing, and damp-smelling autumn leaves. Of the same question, of mittened fingertips, of tiny, bursting hearts.

"Not as much as I like you."

Her laughter fills the room with music, and I know that she remembers too.

change of view

I can't get her out of my mind.

She's trapped there, in a tiny space between my consciousness and my morality (or whatever's left of it), and I can't seem to shake her out. I know I've crossed a line, I've made her cry, and I can't help but feel she's everywhere, crowding me in, suffocating me with the sight of her huge brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears. I know she thinks I didn't care, didn't notice, but I saw the way her cheeks reddened with anger, I saw the way her eyes warmed into teary pools before she steeled herself up in retaliation. I saw the way her shoulders sloped forward, fighting back sobs as she walked away. I watched her walk away, and the sound of those quickened footsteps will pound through my head every single time I see her, if I ever do, ever again.

I don't feel sorry, but for some reason, I'm dwelling on her, losing myself to the sadness in her eyes. She looked like a painting: delicate mouth, flushed skin, dewy eyelashes. I'd never, ever seen her that desolate, that alone. I almost wanted to pull her hair once, to feel the softness underneath my fingertips. To make her smile, if I could.

Why did I do it? I've never been that cruel, that blantantly pigheaded and bastardly to any other girl in my life, but she seems to bring out that wolfish side of me. The honesty in her eyes scares me, the prettiness of her mouth as she shoots me down, puts me in my place. She'll never be beautiful, she's too plain and hard-spoken. But she's pretty when she's cruel, the stoniness in her eyes, the strength in her stance. When she stares me down, I'm always the first to look away. She's unnerving. She's unexpected. And she can see right through me.

I'll never, ever care for her. But something about her, her spark, maybe, caught my interest, caught my attention. She was resolute, immobile, a rock in the face of rushing waters. Nothing could move her, sway her, push her out of place. And the way she was speaking, glaring, looking up into my eyes like she knew me, like she knew what I was all about. The know-it-all tilt to her voice, the way she gazed at Chad with such softness in her eyes, the way she gave him one last parting glance before she turned to flee. The sadness in her hands as she gathered her books, the tears sparkling against her eyelashes.

She infuriated me, set me off, brought out the worst part of who I am. She scared me, called me up on who I am, and told me exactly what she thought of me. She made me grit my teeth, clench my fists, bite my tongue to stop from pouncing on her, tearing something off. I'd never seen her so sad, so completely broken. And yet, I'd broken her. I'd seen something snap, something split in two, and I knew this wasn't a game anymore. I knew I'd crossed a line. And I've never, ever given a second glance at my actions, ever regretted what I've done in the past. But somehow, looking into her eyes, the defeat I found there, made me want to reach out my fingers and make her smile. Made me want to lie and tell her she was beautiful, made me want to snatch the words from the air and tell her it was all just one, big mistake, and couldn't she look at me softly?

I can't get her out of my freaking mind, and I'm going completely insane. I've never, ever second-guessed myself, and here this girl has me on my back, at three o'clock in the morning, still thinking of the sorrowful sway of her hair as she walked away. And I knew the sound of the door closing behind her was really the sound of her heart breaking in two, and all I wanted was to follow her, to run to catch up to her, to tangle my fingers in her hair and whisper "sorry", hoping that she would understand.

A/N: Hey guys! Thanks for your reviews:) Please, please, please, keep reviewing, because when I don't get reviews, I feel uninspired to write. And I'm really, really exciting for this story, and it's promising to be a long one. I want this story to be as real as possible, so Troy and Gabriella won't get together immediately... this isn't purely a fluff story, it's a story of developing from hatred to something else. So please, sit tight and be patient. I have a whole plan, I know how I want this to go. Hopefully, you guys will enjoy the end product.

Okay, so now, the reviews are at 72. I have a lot of homework this weekend, but I'll write another chapter once the reviews hit 90. Can you do that? I hope I'm not bribing you, but I really, really hunger for some good feedback. This is my first story, and I desperately need your help.

I love you all:) Keep reading and reviewing :)) 


	8. Care

_A/N: Remember what I said about trusting me? You're gonna hate me for this chapter, for the next couple of chapters, but this relationship is imperative for my plotline. Keep that in mind._

_Oh, and when I checked my page on Saturday afternoon, I almost cried. You guys are absolutely incredible... I felt really badly for making you guys review, but you guys did it in less than a day. It makes me feel so warm that you guys actually care, that you're actually looking forward to another chapter. Thank you, thank you, I love you all. Oh, and don't hate me after you finish this chapter, please. :)_

_Let's make it to 100 this time. :) Love you guys sooooo much, your making my first writing experience so beautiful!_

I spent the entire weekend with tired eyes and sticky eyelashes, and now he's here, in front of me with a pleading look on his face. I want to throw up in my mouth, to swallow my feelings away, to look him squarely in the eye and tell him I deserve better, that he's just not what I'm looking for anymore. But then he smiles, drags his fingers through my hair, and I realize that maybe I still do, maybe I want him to fall in love with me. Maybe more than him, maybe more than his flaws and weaknesses, maybe I just want a boy to care for me, a boy to look into my eyes the way he is now. And so, I lean into his touch, listen to what he has to say.

"Gabriella, I'm sorry I didn't follow you." I squint my eyes a little, pretending I don't understand, pretending that I haven't cried myself to sleep for the last three nights because of him. All I want to do is scream at him, to cry in his presence, to beat him on the chest and let him know how much he really hurt me, how much he completely destroyed my faith in him. How much I was counting on him to rescue me, only to have him fall miles short.

"You know, that thing with Troy. I've been thinking a lot about what you've said, and I'm not going to make excuses for him anymore. I'm gonna focus on you, on what you need, what you want. You're very important to me, and you've helped me out so much, Gabriella. You mean more to me than you know."

He's sucking up to me, looking from underneath his lashes, scuffing his sneakers bashedly against the floor like has hasn't rattled off this speech a thousand times before. He wants something, he wants approval and acceptance, he wants someone to tell him, "It's okay, let's move on together." Instead, I stare at his sneakers and wonder what I found so attractive in him to begin with.

"I really, really like you, Gabriella."

I look up suddenly, his words startling me. Oh, how long I'd wanted to hear those words spill from his lips, and now that they have, I wish he'd chosen any other moment to say it. I wish he'd waited until I wasn't angry, until I wasn't about to tell him exactly what I thought about him. I wish he'd told me when he really meant it, when there was risk involved. Maybe, I wish he never told me at all.

"Chad, you're not making any sense..." I'm trying to get him to stop, to think, to realize that this isn't what he wants, that he's making a mistake, that the way he's looking at me now reminds me of a bruised, lost puppy, and that "sorry" isn't enough. I want him to snatch back the words that are still floating in the air, echoing in my eyes, to laugh and yell "just kidding", to turn and walk away. Because I know if he continues, I'm too weak-willed to say no, to tell him how I feel.

"Gabriella, you don't understand how hard it's been on me, the past couple of days. I know that I picked Troy over you, and I'm sorry. But he's still my best friend. I really want you two to get along, because you both mean so much to me. Gabriella, you mean the world to me, and I don't want to live another moment without you."

I feel that taste on the tip of my tongue again, but I can't help myself from smiling. Isn't this what I'd dreamed about? He's holding my hands now, and he's so close I can see my reflection in his eyes. I try to evoke some feeling of excitement within me, but all I feel is dulled satisfaction.

"Gabriella, all this time, I tried to fight my feelings for you, but I've realized how much I want you to be a bigger part in my life. You're funny, you're smart, you make me smile. You're pretty, you're honest, you're not afraid to stand for what you believe in. Gabriella, you're everything I've ever wanted." His voice is trembling appropriately as he says it, his eyes look sincere and caring, his touch warm and comforting. I try to conjure up butterflies in the pit of my stomach, but all I can feel is emptiness. Perhaps I'll learn to care, perhaps I'll learn to feel something when he looks at me that way. Perhaps, the butterflies and fireworks will come, with time.

But the way he's staring at me, like I'm the only one who exists, heats me up from head to toe, and I feel my heart flutter, once, twice. Not because of him, but because of what he feels for me. I, Gabriella - nerdy, stupid, stubborn Gabriella - have a guy who's willing to stutter over me, who's willing to hold my hand in the middle of the hallway, who's handsome and tall and athletic and weak at times, but perfect for me. A guy who's leaning in now, capturing my jaw with his fingers, forcing me to look up from his lips to his eyes, forcing me to answer the unspoken question in his eyes.

"Gabriella, will you be my girlfriend?" The question is anticlimatic, hanging in the space between us almost dryly, and I almost want to reach out and press the Rewind button. Everything seems so stilted, so staged, so scripted. But there he is again, watching me, drinking me in, and I'm blushing all over. I can't believe it, can't wrap my mind around the fact that Chad Danforth wants to be with me, wants to be my boyfriend. It's happening so fast, and I reach out to touch the collar of his shirt, the smoothness of his neck, the softness of his cheek. The way he's looking at me, almost worried that I'll say no, makes me smile and move into him, wrap myself around him. With my chin resting on his shoulder, my nose inhaling his wonderful smell, my toes on their tips like a ballerina, I whisper, "Okay".

Something in my heart breaks as I say it, and I know I'm trying to prove something to myself, to Chad, maybe even to Troy. I can be that girl. That girl who tangles fingers with her boyfriend in the middle of the hallway, that girl who's always glowing with the attention he gives her, that girl who's always happy, always smiling, always noticed. The girl you know, in 10 years, will still be loved, because she's got substance, because she got the guy no one thought she would. I could be that girl. I could be his girl. And it would be easy, so easy.

Now he's laughing into my hair, squeezing my hands, letting me know how happy he is. He leans forward, and I'm struck again by the beauty in his eyes, the way they sparkle and turn with every emotion, the way they make me feel, the way they're directed at me and only me. His lips look soft, so soft, and I reach out to trace my finger against the warmness I find there. He pulls me close and tilts my head slightly with two fingers under my chin, and he's moving close to me, enveloping me, my hand slipping from his face to his shoulder.

He closes his eyes and I can feel his breath against my cheek as he wraps his arm protectively around the smallness of his waist, keeping me close to him. His scent is surrounding me, and he captures my lips with his. Soft, warm, sweet. Nothing romantic or loving about it, but still, my first kiss feels wonderful. I know I don't love him, and maybe I never will, but I need him to much to care, I want him so much that I can't say no.

For once in my life, someone looked past my hair and eyes and nervous smile and saw me, saw something worth keeping, something worth caring for. I never knew what that would feel like until now, and it feels beautiful.

I'm opening my eyes, and I realize he's staring at me with a lazy smile on his face, his fingers still tangled in mine. A blonde freshman walking past us purposely brushes against me, a venomous look in her blue, blue eyes. I know what she's thinking now, and it makes me smile back, smile harder. I'm the girl you're jealous of, I whisper to her swinging golden hair, her perfect little figure.

"I just realized I'm going out with my tutor! Man, if this doesn't make me an A student, I don't know what will..." He's laughing, tickling at my side, making me giggle.

"What makes you think I'm even gonna want to tutor you anymore, Mister? Who's to say maybe I've given up on you?" I'm collapsing in half, trying to push him away, tears of happiness caught in my eyes. He's reaching out now, quiet, pulling me close, soothing my sides with the gentle sweep of his fingers, and I know he's serious. Suddenly he's reaching out, sliding the barette from my hair, watching as the curls tumble down by back and fall against my cheeks.

"Gabriella, never, ever give up on me." I feel so beautiful right now, the way he's looking at me like I'm porcelain, fragile, perfect, the only one who can give him what he wants.

"Okay," I whisper. And as he leans forward to kiss me again, I hope I never will.

**///////////CHANGE OF VIEW////////////////**

"Hey, man. What the hell happened? You're acting like you just won the State Championship, twice." Chad has this goofy smile on his face, and during practice, he missed every single one of his free throws, not even caring as our teammates teased and jeered him on. He seemed light, free almost, ready to take off into flight at any second.

He opens his mouth, about to tell me, but then stops himself. "Troy, what do you have against Gabriella?"

I blink, once, twice, trying to understand how she of all people fits into this. "Something about her makes me angry, that's all. She's always domineering and sulky and moody, and she's this two-faced person who likes to pretend like she's got nothing to hide. Maybe if we met on different terms, it'd be different, but we didn't, and we both mutually feel hatred for each other."

He shake his head, almost imperceptibly, and I feel like slamming him hard against the wall. What the hell was his problem? Why the hell was he smiling like that, like he'd just experienced the most amazing thing, like he didn't even care about pretense or reputation or pretending like he didn't care. That look on his face, the freedom of it, sparks something inside me, something you might almost call jealousy. Most of all, though, I wonder why the sound of her name against his lips makes him smile, makes him pause a moment and press his lips together in thought.

"Do you wanna fuck her, or something, man?" It's the only thing I can think of to say, and now that it's out, I want to take it back, to retreat to silence. Why the hell do I always say the most stupid things?

"No... no. Okay, look, it's not like that. I know you have something against the girl, but I really, really like her. I think I might even care about her, and I've never thought of any other girl quite the same way, ever. I asked her out before practice, and she said yes."

"Gabriella? Gabriella said yes?"

"Yeah."

"And you like her?"

"Yeah."

"What the hell, man? Who the fuck are you?" All I can think about is Gabriella, saucy spirited little Gabriella, saying yes, reaching out her hands to him, looking at him with soft, soft eyes, and suddenly, it all makes sense.

"Troy, I know you hate her, but I don't. And I'm tired of trying to please you, of letting you control my life. You're my best friend, but now, Gabby's my girlfriend, and I don't care what the fuck you have to say about her. Stay away and leave her alone."

"Gabby?" I spit it out when I say it, like it's something dirty in my mouth. "I didn't know you two were so close." I don't know why this is affecting me as much as it is, but suddenly, all I want to do is pull my arm back and hit Chad hard in the stomach, watch him double over in pain. This girl is changing him, making him stronger, making him happier, and I hate it. I hate the way he's looking at me now, goading me, protecting her. I hate the way his eyes light up when he says her name, hate the way she's not the way she is with me, that there's a soft, human side to her.

"Troy, I mean it. You guys are close to me, but if push comes to shove, I'm choosing her, just like you've chosen your little blonde whores over me every single time. So be civil to her, or I'm walking out that door and never coming back."

I let out a laugh and whisper, "You're even walking away like her. Who the hell are you? What has she done to you?"

The smile he gives me in return scares the shit out of me, and something snaps in my ribcage, something pulls in conscience. I remember her look as she left the library, the sad slope of her shoulders, the glimmering silver of her tears. I broke her, and here Chad is, putting her back together again. Gabriella, who sees nothing worthy of a second glance in me, somehow thinks Chad's better, somehow thinks he'll treat her like a queen.

And I know he won't. I know he'll end up breaking her just like I did, but this time, she'll stay that way. I know this, because he's too much like me, and he'll never, ever change.

"I'll fucking play nice with her."

"Good."

I've never seen him this happy, ever, and it makes me want to **scream.**

_**A/N:** ducks to stop herself from being hit from flying rocks. Sorry guys, but have faith in me!_


	9. Fathead

**A/N:** _Oh my goodness, guys. You are INSANE, people. Here I am, telling you to make it to 100 reviews, thinking that it'll take me to Sunday afternoon easily. When I check my messages, I SEE 114. Holy crap._

_You make my day, every day, guys._

_I'm happy to see that most of you understand why I have the Chadella thing going on, and I promise you that I'm not just tormenting you - it's all to make the Troyella lovin' that much better :). I'll let you know this much: in the next couple of chapters, I don't think you'll have the same opinion of Chad. :))_

_I hope none of you give up on me - I know I'm not able to do what all of you want, but hopefully, in the end, you'll understand why I put this relationship here to begin with._

_Oh, and as a treat, I tried to make a banner for this story. I absolutely SUCK on the computer, and my banner is pretty sucky too, even though I spent a lot of time on it._

here it is (remove the spaces):

i 5 . p h o t o b u c k e t . c o m / a l b u m s / y 1 8 6 / j o a n n a j o s e p h / b a n n e r 5 . j p g

_If you want to make me a banner, please, please do. It's always been one of my personal fantasies to have a beautiful banner for my fiction pieces (I know I'm kinda weird, but bear with me.)_

_If you're willing to do it, here's what I want on it: the title, my username, at least four pictures, including Troy, Gabriella, Chad, and Kelsi, and make sure that they're not smiling in every single one - if you can't tell by now, this is kind of an angsty story. If you can do that, I'll dedicate the next chapter for you and love you foreeeeeeever. For added incentive, I'll even let you pick one Troyella scene that you've always wanted to read but never had the chance to, and I'll incorporate it into later chapters._

_And Snugi, in a nutshell, the last chapter was Chad and Gabriella getting together (gasp gasp!) and Troy getting jealous that Gabriella likes Chad, but promising that he'll act nice for Chad's benefit._

_Thanks!_

_Okay - this time, I'll update again when the reviews hit 130. :) Although, the more the merrier:)_

**//ON WITH THE STORY...//**

He's smiling at me, and my heart clanks against my ribcage violently.

What the hell?

He's never smiled at me like that before, all sparkling eyes, dimpled cheeks, raised eyebrows, hint of teeth. "Hey Gabriella!"

I repeat, what the hell? His voice is filled and bursting with happiness, and I swear to God his eyes are twinkling. Twinkling! Up until this moment, I could have sworn to you that Troy Bolton is physically incapable of smiling, and here he is, flashing his pearly whites at me with nothing but joy on his face.

Now he's motioning to the seat across from him with his plastic fork, waving like a madman with his other hand, acting like a fool, like he's glad to see me, like I'm not his archenemy, like I don't actually hate him.

But I do, and this is just so... weird, like I've stepped into someone's idea of a cruel, cruel joke. Girls are twisting in their seats, trying to get a good look at the girl who has Troy Bolton all worked up, trying to garner a peek at the person who's finally got Troy Bolton to smile. And the only one still standing is me. If glares could kill, I'd be resting comfortably six feet under.

I am on acid? Is this happening?

What. the. hell.

I realize this probably has something to do with Chad, something to do with the fact that Troy's his best friend, and I guess I should have expected this. But that doesn't stop the feeling of foreboding from curling up in my stomach, and I can't push down the sense that this isn't going to work, that someone's going to snap, that I'm a good actress, but not that good.

I'm still standing at the front of the cafeteria like an idiot, with my lunch tray in my hands, and I realize that I'm shaking, that I can't, can't, can't sit across from Troy and smile at him like he doesn't make me want to throw up all over his $200 sneakers. But, somehow, I find myself walking, one foot in front of the other, the sound of my shoes against the tile the loudest thing in my ears, and I'm pretty sure I can't breathe. My utensils are clattering against my plastic tray and my milk is sloshing inside its carton and I can't shut my head up and just think about how I'm going to escape. And suddenly, I'm there.

And he's still smiling, grinning from ear to ear like the Chesire cat. I can't stop the shudder that travels up my spine. Now that I'm up close, up personal, I can see the fakeness behind the dimples and blue, and I can tell he hates doing this as much as I do.

As I slide into my seat, I can smell Chad all over me, and I feel his lips against my hair, whispering, "Hey, baby." I close my eyes and smile, for real this time, and I realize how much of a dork I am, but right now, with my boyfriend's hands on my shoulders, I don't really care. I love the way my heart jumps at the gentle squeeze he gives me, how he sets his lunch tray next to mine and sits, his arms still tangled in my hair, the smile still on his face.

I'm opening my eyes, and I see Troy's patronizing grin, the way he's shaking his head, and suddenly, the smile crumbles from my face as I'm reminded of why exactly I hate him.

"Got a problem, Troy?" I spit the question out my mouth with as much venom as I can muster, and my words come out harsher than I intend them to, but the flash in his eyes tell me I got the result I was looking for.

"I just find it pretty pathetic how lovey-dovey you guys are after going out for let's see, 48 hours? I pegged you as a prude, Gabriella, but I guess I was wrong. You're just hungry for whatever attention you can get." He's almost snarling, and his knuckles are white from holding his fork so hard, he's swallowing his food, and I can tell that I hurt him.

Good.

"Troy, have you ever really had a girlfriend? I don't mean a fuck buddy. I mean a girl who actually likes you and not what you can do for her?" I like the way the insults fall freely from my lips, the way his eyes widen, the way Chad stiffens next to me, the courage I feel when he opens his mouth to respond.

"All my girls wish I'd give them more than a second glance when I'm done with them. You would, too. But I'm not a one-girl kind of guy."

"Or maybe, you're worried that you're actually pretty boring outside the bedroom, and that really, outside of sex, there's not much else to you?"

"Nobody said anything about bedrooms, honey." He's curling his tongue between his teeth, looking at me from under hooded lashes, and Chad is pushing his arm, telling him to shut the fuck up, and I'm glaring holes into his forehead, hoping that he'll just disappear so that I can fully appreciate the feel of my boyfriend's fingers massaging my neck.

"Guys, what the hell? Can't you at least act civil for half an hour? Just to humour me?" I can tell he's hurt, and I soothe the back of his hands with my fingers, trying to tell him I'm sorry.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Troy swallow back a snicker and shake his hair into his eyes, mumbling a quiet apology, his gaze still on the way my fingers stroke Chad's arms, probably wondering how a girl capable of so much care could also be capable of so much cruelty.

And that's something he'll never, ever figure out about me.

I see the gloss of Kelsi's golden hair in the bustle of people waiting for a seat at the front of the cafeteria, and I quickly call her over to our table, wanting another body beside, wanting another friend on my side. Maybe then I'll remember to breathe, to look away from the blue, to bite back bitter responses and focus on the good.

But what the hell is good in Troy?

I've looked, spent the last two weeks looking, but I come up with nothing every single time, and I'm tired of searching, tired of trying to paint him in some sort of idealistic light when he's just about as evil as you can get.

Chad's frozen beside me as she sits down across from him, and I wonder what's wrong, doesn't he like her? But she's my best friend, Was I too presumptuous in asking her to sit here with us?

But then I realize that if he doesn't want to be seen with her, I don't want him anyway. He better take me, friends and all, flaws and all, or he better not take me at all.

"Chad, this is Kelsi, Kelsi, this is Chad." Kelsi's smiling and sticking out her hand, but something feels awkward, out of place. Her smile is pinched, her fingers are trembling, and I can tell she's biting the inside of her cheek. I look at Troy, and he's looking at them, and I can tell he can feel it too, he can tell that something's wrong, that at the surface, something's going to break.

"Gabriella, look, I'm sorry about getting all defensive on you. What if we start over?" Troy's trying to smooth things over, trying to get me to hate him a little less. I wonder if I'm the first person who's ever responded to him like this, to every kick him where it hurts, to ever bruise his ego, and I smile at his attempt to try and be the better man, even if it's only to get on Chad's better side.

"Okay. I'd like that, I think."

"So would I," Chad's laughing, smiling, happy. He can't tell it's all for show, and for once, I'm glad that he's so oblivious. His hand has dropped from my neck to my knee, and he's tracing little designs on my jeans, tickling me with the underside of his fingers. It feels so nice, like something you would try to wrap up in a gift card if you could. It felt like Christmastime, like coming home, and I leaned into his touch.

"So, Gabby, what do you see, exactly, in my best friend to start off with?" When I turn to look at him, I see nothing but pure curiosity, and it unnerves me a little. Troy just isn't Troy without the domineering smirk on his face, without the lusty glances, without the crude remarks. I wonder, briefly, why he cares, but then I remember that we're acting for Chad. Pretending like we can put our differences behind us, like we can act like adults when we're really just kids.

"He treats me like I'm special, like I'm someone worth getting to know." I know it's the wrong thing to say, that it isn't what he wants to hear, but I say it anyway. I know Troy's putting 2 and 2 together behind his eyelids, and he can already hear what I've left out in my explanation: "...unlike you, who's treated me like a bitch for no reason."

As I take a sip of my juice, Chad squeezes my knee gently. I can feel the warmth of his palm through the denim fabric of my jeans, and I can almost taste his happiness in the air. He's glad we're getting along.

Troy clears his throat, once, twice, I can tell this is hard on him, trying not to lash out at me, to swallow the nasty retort still slipping on the tip of his tongue.

"Well, that's nice."

"Mmmhmm."

You could cut through the tension with a knife.

"Is he your first boyfriend?"

I can feel Kelsi's eyes, wide and bright, flicker towards mine, and her foot brushes against mine under the table. Comfort.

"Uh... no, my second, I guess. But my first one was a mistake."

"Oh."

"Look, Troy. I can get that you're trying to be nice, but could we not pretend like you care about my personal matters? Because you don't."

"Is it really that obvious?"

"Yeah, don't start writing your Academy Awards thank you speech anytime soon."

"Hey! I'm offended!"

"Buddy, it's the truth. Stick to basketball and whoring yourself around... it's what you're good at."

It's slipped out of my mouth, and I don't realize I've said it until it's already against my lips and I can't take it back. Thankfully, Troy's laughing, his shoulders shaking and his head thrown back.

My heart is wiggling violently inside my chest, my breath is caught in my throat and I can't believe the way my fingertips are sweating. I've never heard him laugh before, really laugh, and he looks so... nice. So human. So real. I want to ruffle his hair beneath my hand and laugh with him, but all I can do is stare and let the sound ring through my ears. I can't help but think he's doing this to make Chad jealous, but I push that idea aside. He wouldn't. He'd never. To stop myself from thinking, I take a bite of the chocolate chip cookie in my hand, fully away that the sticky chocolate is smeared at the corner of my mouth.

"Gabriella, you've always been this firecracker. No wonder we don't get along."

"I'm actually pretty glad we don't. I can only imagine the crap Chad must go through with you."

"Hey, your friend here looks pretty pooped out herself."

"Did Troy Bolton just use the word "poop" in a sentence?"

"Shut up."

"Ooooh. Fighting words. Is that the only comeback you have?"

"You know I hate you, right?" He's not looking at my eyes, he's looking at the corner of my lips. Chocolate, I realize with a start.

"Uh huh. The feeling's mutual."

We're smiling at each other, and his stupid laughter is still echoing in my ears. It doesn't feel so awkward now, and even though we'll never, ever be friends, at least this, whatever this is, is one step away from "let's-wring-eachother's-necks".

And that, that makes this entire day worth it, which is partly why I can't get this grin off my face.

Kelsi's still watching me, carefully, making sure I'm okay, making sure Troy hasn't crossed a line. Suddenly, I realize that I don't know her that well any more, that I can't read her expressions like I used to. That she's not the same Kelsi she was yesterday, that she's changed.

Chad suddenly cradles my jaw in his hands, kissing the corner of my mouth, licking the tiny bit of chocolate I've left there. I'm pushing at his chest, giggling, telling him how disgusting he is, how I can't stand him. And he's tickling me, and my face is buried in the slope of his strong shoulders, and I feel so, so warm. He smells like a forest, musky and manly, and I feel like kissing him for real, and so I do.

But when I open my eyes, I see Kelsi's gaze on the way his arms are wrapped around my waist, on how close we are, how his head is tilted down to watch me, and she looks like she's about to cry, like she can't look at us another moment. Suddenly, she grabs her tray and slips away, hoping that I don't notice, hoping I don't see the way her heart is breaking in her eyes. I don't know what's wrong with her, and I wish I could help her, but something about the way Chad smells makes me want to stay here in his arms.

He's breaking away from me, letting his hands trail against my sides in an almost tickle, revelling in my laughter. "I've gotta go do something, okay? I'll pick you up after school by your locker." He's kissing my cheek again, and I can feel the blush spreading across my cheeks. This feels so good, so right.

I smile at his retreating back, at the strength of his shoulders, at his easy stance, at the way his clothes cling in all the right places, at the friendly puff of his crazy, crazy hair. And I know Troy's watching me, sizing me up, wondering if I really, really like him, or if I'm just using him. I don't think he's ever met someone who liked someone for real without their own hidden agenda, without sex and lust and cheating, and that suddenly makes me inexplicably sad. That I've never had sex, and yet here I am, sitting across from him, making him jealous of me. I guess in that way, I've gone further than him, I'm more experienced than him.

I lock my brown eyes with his blue ones, and I can tell he's not playing games anymore. I can tell, that now that Chad is gone, his opinion hasn't really changed, that he's still the same guy, I'm still the same girl, and that the difference between us in unbreachable. In too many ways, we're too far apart.

"Bitch." The word is almost comfortable for me to hear him say, and I'm glad that he's still the same old Troy, that he doesn't yet have the ability to surprise me.

"Manwhore."

"Slut."

"Fathead."

Suddenly, we're smiling, and I know we've made a step in right direction, but I have no idea where we're going, what we're doing here, hating each other in full-view of everyone else.

I love, how out of all people to fall for, I fall for the guy with the best friend who can't stand me. I love how I'll always hate him, how he'll always hate me, and that the knowledge of the other's hatred is the the only constant in our worlds, the only thing we can count on knowing.

So why can't I wipe the stupid smile off my face and walk away?


	10. Corrupted

_A/N: Wow, guys! I love how well you guys are responding to this story, and I can't believe your compliments. You guys make me warm all over, and reading your comments makes my day. :)_

_Remember, if you want to make a banner, go ahead. :) I'm not stopping you!_

_Also, you guys are so, so, so perceptive, it's kind of scary. I hope this perceptive-ness doesn't get in the way of enjoying the story. :)_

_Oh, and pleeeeeeease keep reviewing. I love your feedback._

_I'll update again when it gets to 147 (ha, I love random numbers)._

"Gabriella... I've gotta admit, you and Chad look a-dor-a-ble together."

I look up from my Math homework, watching the tilt of her eyebrows, the sweep of her hair, the way she won't look me in the eye, the way she's rubbing her lower wrist the way she does when she's telling a lie.

"Mmmhmm." I mumble noncommittedly, my gaze still on her wrist, on her trembling fingers.

"Seriously. I almost had to throw up, that's how cute you guys were." She's leaning back against my bed now, her feet propped up on a pillow, tiny puffs of cottonball stuck between her drying toes.

"That's actually pretty gross, Kelsi." I've gone back to attempting to solve a trigonometric function that I've already found the answer to, plugging random things into my calculator to give her the chance to stop talking. To stop trying to put on a brave front with me. I'm giving her an escape. _Take it_, I tell her with every breath I take.

"Well, it's true! Like, run to the bathroom, chase away my gag reflexes cute."

"Kelsi, you don't have to talk about it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever you want it to. Just... know that I know."

"What the fuck?"

"Kelsi... seriously, it's okay. Let's not talk about it."

And I'm pressing the 'delete' button over and over, watching the screen clear again and again and again until the dull in my heart hurts a little less.

"Uh... I have no idea what the heck you're talking about." She's staring at her toes now, watching them harden into ten perfect little red squares, wondering where to go from here.

I'm doodling a knife on the side of my homework with the tip of my pencil, letting out metal and hard and ridge and sparkle and vengeance and betrayal and blood. The handle's too wide, too thick to hold, but I don't erase it, I just stare at the sharp lines for a while, letting its strength burrow into my bones, into my breaths, into my being.

"Kelsi, you went out with Chad before, didn't you? Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Gabby, wait, I..."

"No, Kels. Let me finish. You should have told me that you went out with him, that I'm hurting you by shoving this relationship in your face. That's unfair. Why can't you trust me, Kelsi? Why can't you just tell me the truth? What the hell happened to us?"

I'm shaking now, and the numbers that used to make so much sense are blurring with tears before me, and I know that we'll keep working on the problems we know we'll never solve, that this will never divide out equally, that life isn't math, that I don't know who the fuck my best friend is, sitting a bedlength away from me. And she's staring at her feet, at the dreamlike substance between her toes, her face a stone mask, and her hair looks so so blonde it's almost yellow. I can't believe this is what we've come to.

"Gabby, don't pretend to understand about my life, about what I've done. You have no fucking clue." Her voice is cold, distant, and suddenly, I am very very afraid. The tears dry on my cheeks, and when I turn to look into her eyes, I'm strong, metal, unmovable. I can almost feel the walls harden around me, I can almost feel my heart harden into a tiny little fist, I can almost feel my body breaking under her cruel gaze. When did she get like this? Why couldn't I see her? She's metamorphed into some retarded species of butterfly, all black wings and twisted mouth and rude stare and crippled flight, and I want to crush her and hold her close at the same time.

I swallow.

I blink.

"I'm sorry for hurting you." I whisper, and I don't know why I am. I can't believe I've let us come to this, to whatever the hell this is, to hurting and backstabbing and breaking in two. "If I knew..." I let my thoughts trail away into quiet, and I'm watching as her shoulders come up and down with every breath, I'm watching the way she's pulling her hair from her face, I'm watching the way she's crying silent tears, not even bothering to catch them with her fingers. Not even bothering to pretend like she knows we'll never be the same again, not after this.

"Get out of my room, Kelsi." I'm surprised at the strength of my words, at how right it feels to say them. I can't believe she's twisting this, making it seem like it's all my fault, and I hate her for her silence, for her fake fake tears, for the way she's trying to tell me sorry with every single move she makes, even as she slides off the bed, her toes dangling in front of her. And she still won't look at me, and suddenly, I know exactly why she's acting the way she is, why she can't hold my gaze, why she's shaking.

And I know, but I don't, and I crush that thought into ashes. I'm broken enough for one day, and I trust her enough to know it's not true, that she wouldn't break me that way. That the people I've fooled into loving me love me, that they're not lying, using me, that I'm worth caring about. That they wouldn't even think about it, that they're the only two people in the world that matter right now, and if they hurt me, I don't know what I'll do. I tell myself to quiet down, to hush up, to breathe, that my life isn't crumbling around me.

I don't even turn to watch her leave, to tell her goodbye. I can't turn away from the knife on my page, on the cruelty of the metal, on the way it almost seems to be catching light, and I wonder what this all means, why my heart is breaking this way, and why I suddenly want to throw something against the wall with everything I have. I wonder why I can't stop crying if I've just put up every wall I have, I wonder why it hurts this much, because didn't I always expect this?

**//CHANGE OF VIEW//**

"What the hell is going on with you and Gabriella's friend?" I'm seeing red, fucking blood red, and I'm ready to pull something off of him, ready to push him against the wall until he can't breathe, ready to hit him until he can't smile the way he's smiling now, all twisted mouth and dimples.

"Nothing, Troy. Don't you trust me?" He's grinning as he says it, opening his locker and stuffing his damp, sweaty practice clothes into the duffel bag pooled at his feet. He's not wearing a shirt, and his brown back is sparkling with bubbles of bathwater and sweat, and his ribcage is showing through his sides, and I think about how easy it would be to crush him, to break him.

"Don't you fucking play games with me, Chad, because I'm so much better at playing than you." I'm shoving him, once, twice, just hard enough for him to know that I can push harder, just hard enough for him to feel the strength corded up in my muscles, the shift of energy in my feet, my readiness to fight, my ability to win.

He's laughing now, this cold, sick laugh, and he's turning around, slowly. "Troy, that's exactly it. You're such a hypocrite. You've cheated on every single hobag bitch you've slept with, and I haven't even slept with the girl, and you don't even know what the hell you're talking about. You have no proof. Plus, why the hell would I want to hit that when I've got Gabriella? Have you seen her in her tight little jeans?"

The red has darkened, and I swear I'm blind with rage. I'm pushing him again, and I have no idea why I'm reacting this strongly, why I have to grit my teeth together to stop from smacking the stupid snarl off his face.

"Chad, I fucking know what's going on. And I may hate the girl, but I know her enough to know you're gonna break her. That you're gonna hurt her. Doesn't that make you feel anything at all?" And suddenly, I'm thinking of her, of her warm chocolate eyes, of her ability to love, of the way she closed her eyes when Chad kissed her hair, of the fact that the only time I've seen her happy was when he was with her. Of the way she smells, honest and sweet, ready to be trampled. Of her vulnerability.

"Troy, you're just gonna have to trust me. I'm not doing anything with the bitch, I swear."

He's looking me in the eye, and his audacity surprises me. I'm just staring at him, staring at me, and all that's caught between us is our breaths and lies and whatever we have left of our friendship.

"Chad, you better be fucking telling the truth."

"Troy, isn't it ironic that you spend every moment of your life trying to ruin her day, and yet here you are, defending her honour? The real truth of the matter is that you can't stand to see my fucking happy. You can't get the fact that Gabriella actually likes me, actually cares about me, actually smiles when she's around me. You can't believe that I've finally got the girl, that even if you tried, she'd never, ever, respond to you other than hating you right back. You can't stand that you haven't won."

His words are sharp little arrows, tight and sharp, nipping at the flesh near my heart, driving me insane. I know he's lying, know he's just goading me, trying to get me to react, so why can't I get her face out of my head? Why does it sound like the truth.

"Troy, admit it. You want to get into her hot little body just as much as I do."

"Is that what this is all about? Fucking her?"

"Troy, you've played this game hundreds of times before. Why else would I be with her? For the pleasure of her conversation?"

And suddenly, I'm pulling my fist back, punching him hard against the mouth, delighting in the crack of teeth I feel under my fists, loving the way he shudders and falls back, revelling in the fact that he's finally shut up.

And I realize how much I've affected him, how much I've corrupted him, and it makes me want to hit something other than flesh, hit something hard.

And I can't get her eyes out of my mind, and suddenly, I feel like doing so much more.

What the fuck is wrong with me?


	11. Innocent

_A/N: Lol, you guys have me burning my fingers in order to get these reviews out fast enough. Holy!_

_Okay, so I have some not-so-good news, and well... yeah, that's it. I'll still be working on this story, but I probably can't update as frequently, since this is university application time for me, as I'm in Grade 12. Up till now, it's been a daily thing, and although I love doing it, I may not be able to update every single day._

_I'm sorry guys._

_I'm definitely not going to set this story completely on the backburner, but don't be surprised if you hit the review mark and it still takes some time for me to get it out. Here's my promise to you: once you hit the review mark, I'll get it out by the next 24 hours - I'll try my absolute hardest! (Exam time, though, is a different story.)_

_Oh, and guess what guys? I fell in love. Mmhmm. With **rumor.has.it**. You are beautiful, you are incredible, if you were a man - I'd so marry you. Guess what, guys? She made a banner! and it's beautiful:)_

_Thanks,love :)_

here it is:

h t t p / i m g 8 9 . i m a g e s h a c k . u s / i m g 8 9 / 3 5 1 7 / h o p e l e s s l y o u 7 . p n g

_So, rumor.has.it, I'm dedicating this chapter to you. And, if you have any moments you'd love to see happen between Troy and Gabriella, please feel free to message me, and I'll incorporate it into the story somehow._

_Hmm... this time, I'm gonna make it harder, because of uni applications and everything - 172. :) Think you can do it?_

--

Heather, or Heidi, or something is clinging pitifully to the sleeve of my sweater and I'm trying to push her off, but she just doesn't take a hint.

"Baby," she's whispering into my ear, tickling my chest with her manicured fingers, licking backside of my earlobe, trying to get me to respond to her, to bring her closer, to somehow validate her existence. Her hair looks so blonde it's almost sickening, and she's so thin I can feel her hipbones digging into my side. Her eyes squint up at me, and she's trying to bat her eyelashes slowly, seductively, but she just ends up looking like a little girl playing a woman's game, and I fight the urge to laugh at her, to tug her hair violently and watch her gasp in hurt surprise. She looks like a wounded antelope cradled in my lap, and I almost feel sorry for her, for the way she's folded up against me, for the way she's breathing hard, pretending like I'm already turning her on, just sitting here, glaring at her.

"I'm not your baby," I tell her, bitingly, but she's snatching my hand from my pocket and pushing it to touch her breast, to squeeze it softly, to weigh it's heaviness in the curve of my palm. She knows her breasts are her best asset, but doesn't she know that I've had better? That she was just a sideshow attraction, that girls like her don't hold my interest anymore? That once is enough, that twice is overkill, and that the ride is the same every single time? She's wearing a skirt today, and it's sliding up her thighs, and I can see tiny swollen bumps against the orangey tan skin, places where she's nicked herself with her razor, and I'm thinking, why the hell are you shaving your thighs? And her hair smells too much like some kind of chemical pomegranate, heavy and sweet and trying too hard to be subtle, and I can feel my eyes water from all the fakeness that's surrounding me.

And I'm looking down at her hand, holding my hand, holding her breast, and I'm thinking how pathetic it is that she has to hold me there, that she has to keep my attention this way. And her nails are painted this shiny pastel colour, and she's drawn in these tiny blue flowers along the tips, stems winding around and around in an intricate design, and I'm thinking what the hell where you thinking? Who the hell is looking at your fingernails when you're wearing a skirt so short that the curve of your ass is clearly visible beneath the hem, when you're wearing a shirt so low that it's obvious you're not wearing a bra? Her blonde hair is pulled up in a bun, and there's a smattering of freckles on the back of her neck, the only pale part of her, and it's almost a constellation of tiny brown stars, shaped in the outline of a heart, and I'm wondering, who made you like this, girl? Who made you bleach your hair, burn your skin, shave your thighs, diet away all your curves? Was it someone like me? Did I do this to you? And I'm looking at her fingernails, at the girlish hope in the tips of the flower's edges, and I suddenly feel hopelessly lost, like I'm trapped in this web of cause-and-effect and I'll never ever ever be able to work my way out.

"Troy, I love you." She's telling me again, and I can tell she really thinks that she does, I can already mouth the words that she wants to hear. And for the first time in my life, I almost wish I could say them back, but I know it would all be a lie, that I'll never be capable of saying them. And suddenly, she's too heavy on my knee, and suddenly, I know that if I take one more whiff of her perfume, I'm going to black out, go unconscious. I wonder where the hell the real Heather is behind all the makeup and skin and hair, and I wonder whether she really exists, whether the girl who paints flowers on the tips of her nails is in there, somewhere. And for some inexplicable reason, I hope she is.

"Heather..." And she can already tell by my tone of voice, by the quick jerk of my knee, that I'm telling her to leave. She can already tell by the way that my finger is tracing the heart she's hidden on her neck that this is goodbye, that I'm just another boy who's broken her yet again, that she's going to have to start over with someone else. And she's suddenly sliding off my lap, adjusting her skirt, watching her nails as they catch light. She's pulling her top up, she's kissing my ear, and she's smiling through her tears, and for the first time, she almost looks beautiful. I feel like touching her neck one last time.

"My name's Helen," she whispers quietly, under her breath, almost too quiet for me to hear. And Helen is such a beautiful name, so matured and honeyed and elegant, and I'm imagining her draped in silk and pearls, and my heart hurts just thinking about it. And now she's walking away, and I can't tear my eyes away from her.

And I hear the gentle clearing of throat across from me, and I look into her brown, brown eyes, and I can tell she can see it too. And I realize how pretty she looks today, with sunlight pouring out of the windows and catching on the silkiness of her hair, with her half-smile, with the soft clasp of her fingers on the desk in front of her. And her hands are so so small, and I can't tear my eyes away from the innocence I see in the creases of her knuckles, in the warm cocoa of her skin. She reminds me of a deer, of red-flashing quickness, of liquid doe eyes, of white teeth crunching on green grass, of quiet timidity and the hushed rustle of leaves. And I can't look away, and she's thinking hard, looking down at her notes, and her eyelashes fall so prettily against her cheeks, and I wonder how someone so childish could be so cruel?

And I'm reminded of Chad, of his ugly, twisted mouth, of his echoed words and the snarl on his face, on the way his eyes glazed over, imagining Gabriella on her back below him, screaming his name. And the sudden, inexplicable anger, and the bright burst of rage, and the feel of teeth against fist, of setting things straight. And I'm looking at the sheet in front of her, and she's drawing this beautiful eye, and there's a single tear trailing out of the wrong corner, and every single eyelash is perfect. And the eyes look like mine, even though it's a black and white drawing, and I can feel the blue implicitly in every stroke of her gentle, artist hand. And she's shading the tiredness underneath, every single crease and crumple, the darkness of deceit in the skin near the bridge of my nose. And I swear that eyebrow is mine, the soft crook of it, the way it's always raised in doubt, in mockery. And suddenly, her hands are drawing wispy curls, soft bangs, and I realize she's drawing herself. Then why can I see myself in every stroke of her pencil?

I tell her it's a very beautiful drawing, and she's looking up from her page, and I can tell she knows, and I feel like holding her, just holding her. And she's wearing this light blue T-shirt, the same T-shirt she wore on the day I met her, and her hair is twisted into a braid, she looks so so innocent with her curls framing her forehead. And her T-shirt clings to all the right places, to the smallness of her waist, to the curve of her breasts, and I'm wondering why it's taken me so long to look, to really look and see. And I'm thinking of Chad, thinking of her, and red is leaking into my vision and I'm holding the edge of my desk so tightly I can feel the grain of the wood rearranging underneath my fingertips.

And she's surprised that I've said something nice, and something pink and pretty spreads across her cheeks, and she's laughing in shock, and I like the way her nose is crinkling, almost imperceptibly, and I like the way her slender shoulders fall back, I like the way she's not trying to disappear anymore.

But now she's stopping, and her laughter's fading away, and I realize that there's no way I'll ever have her, and it angers me that I'm even thinking about her this way. And I know Chad will break her, and I've broken her before, and Kelsi won't be there, and she'll have no one, and she'll be shattered and no one will be there to pick up the pieces. I know what it's like to be alone, to be betrayed, and I wonder when she'll find out, how she'll find out, if she'll even be the same again. I know she'll never be mine, and that makes me hate her even more.

But then she's smiling at me again, reaching out to touch my knuckles in a silent thank you, and mouthing "doofus" with her pink pink lips, and my knees are shaking underneath the table, and doesn't she know what she's doing to me?

**///CHANGE OF VIEW///**

"Hey, beautiful..." Two warm hands clasp around my eyes, and I stop putting my binders away into my locker, letting myself lean back into a very hard, very male chest. _Mmmm._

"Chad?"

"Holy crap."

And his hands are sliding from my cheeks to my waist and he's turning me around and kissing me, a soft, long kiss, and my heart is fluttering inside my chest - butterfly wings. Tiny little birds are whispering inside my heart, and I can feel the blush heating my face again.

"You're really, really good at this," he's whispering in my hair, still kissing the side of my face, and I can't stop smiling, heat is spreading everywhere, and I can't stop shaking.

"Mmmm... so are you." And he's tangling my fingers in his and I'm looking down at our hands, at the way we fit together perfectly, and I can't help but feel like we're meant to be.

And he's smiling, throwing his head back in laughter, and the tip of his front tooth is chipped and I'm wondering what happened? So I trace my finger lightly against the broken enamel, a silent question in the air between us, and his fingers are dipping lower and lower, almost touching the curve of my ass and I'm swatting him away with a smile.

"Oh, it's nothing, Gabby. Don't worry about me. Practice got a little rough yesterday, that's all." And he's moving back to look at me, his eyes trailing along my curves, and I feel the urge to blush, to cover myself, but he won't let me. "You look beautiful today."

"Just today?" I'm teasing him, and this is so new, and I wish he would just look into my eyes.

"Everyday, baby. Every single fucking day." And he's twirling me around, I can feel the heat of his gaze everywhere, and I'm wishing that I wore a looser pair of jeans today, that my Latina backside isn't always so prominent in every single thing I wear. And he's catching my jaw with his fingers, and his fingers are caught in the middle of my stomach, on the underside of my breasts, and his kisses feel so amazing that I feel like I'm going to pass out from the scent of him, everywhere, and suddenly, I'm not thinking of my ass or my jeans anymore, just him, only him.

"You're so. Fucking. Hot." And he's nipping at my neck between each word, pulling me even closer, into the vee of his legs, and I feel like maybe I should pull away, tell him to stop, that I'm not ready for this. And he seems too rough, too harsh to be him, and I hope that he doesn't think I'm that kind of girl. But he feels so good at the same time, and I don't want to hurt him, to push him away. So I pull his fingers from off my abdomen and hold them in my hands, softly, tenderly, and I kiss him once, twice, pulling away from the sweetness of his lips. And he's breathing hard, and he has to rest his forehead against mine, and I almost feel like I don't know who the hell he is anymore.

And I'm taking his hands in my own, kissing each and every one of his brown knuckles, trying to get him to calm down, to take it slow. And he's watching me, carefully now, and he's smiling that slow, easy smile, and I know he's back, that he hasn't really changed at all.


	12. Fucked Up

**_A/N: Sorry guys - I've been hospitalized for the past couple of weeks and I'm trying to recover and catch up with homework. It's not that serious, but it couldn't have been. I'm still sick and at home, but seeing your reviews made me smile for the first time in a long time. _**

**_I won't be able to update as often. But I love your reviews. Keep me in your prayers. :)_**

She looks so beautiful right now, captured between a boy who doesn't love her, a team who's winning and a crowd that's cheering, and cheerleaders who seem to have everything she doesn't. But they don't have the twinkle of her eye, the passion in her touch, the beauty of her kisses. I've watched her, watched him, watched how they've interacted. She leans back, he whispers into her hair, but he's always facing forward, his eyes never dropping to the slope of her neck or the curl of her hair. She lets her eyelids flutter closed, and she's happy, she's reminiscing, she's holding his wrists and smiling when he kisses her, telling her what she wants to hear. I can tell she's tried to look prettier today, I can tell she's trying for him. A flowy skirt, a close-fit sweater that brings out the sparkle in her eyes, boots that accentuate the warm colour of her legs. But she doesn't need to try, she already is. And he's not even looking, even realizing what's right in front of him. He's staring at them - at the blonde carbon copies that score more than the football team does, and can't he see that she's perfect, that she's his?

Not that I love her, or like her, or even care about her. But she's a girl, and I'm a guy, and I know a pretty girl when I see one. And she's got so much more to her than a stunning body and a beautiful smile. She has substance. She's real. Everything about her - her touches, her kisses, her smiles, her expressions, her words... reveals so much about her. She's vulnerable. A flower opening up petals to the harshness of winter. She's pretty, but she's naive and stupid and foolish and young.

She lifts up her arm to kiss her again, and something glitters against her wrist: a star. And that star, the perfect five corners, the dreaminess of the golden edges, gives her the hope of a little girl reaching for something to love. And her hands, her beautiful hands, are reaching backward, tangling in his hair, in his heart, and she's pressing her lips against his. And she's got her eyes closed, and the furrow in her brow shows anyone who's watching just how much she cares. And he's got his eyes open, and he's still looking at the cheerleaders with this girl tangled up in him, and he's rubbing his hands against her lower back, dipping lower and lower and can't she tell what the fuck is on his mind?

I can't deal with this - deal with the fact that I've influenced him to be like this. Wandering fingers, open eyes, heated touches. I know that with every other girl, I've done the very same thing, and like an eager little kid, he's learned from me, copied me, and in the end, is using it against her. I can already tell by the way he's holding her, he's learned that from me: fingers spread against the lower back, slipping against the curve of the ass, elbow trailing underneath the breasts. He's even pulling back smiling at her, and it's almost like I'm watching myself, watching him watching her. He opens his mouth, and I see his chipped tooth, I can tell he's still hurting. I'm glad. He's so fucked up, it's not even funny.

And she's pushing him back, and she's furious. She knows. Her fingers don't linger on his collar, they fall to his shoulder, willing him with her soft eyes to look up, to turn from the game and just realize that she's there, that she cares, that she's enough and can't he see it? And he's got that cocky grin and he can't even keep her eyes for more than a moment.

And I know why. He's fucking around.

After basketball practice, I usually shoot hoops at his house - it's tradition. After our fight weeks ago, I've stopped going, but yesterday, for some reason, I felt drawn to go there. Maybe it was the familiarity of it all, but I found myself at his door. I hated this, not talking to him. I wanted to make things right. Gabriella wasn't worth it, she wasn't a big enough deal to ruin our friendship. Sure, he was screwed up, but I was part of the reason why. How many times has he sat back and watched me mess around with other girls? And Gabriella needed to learn that love wasn't all sunshine and butterflies, that sometimes, it hurt. I maybe didn't hate her, but I didn't care enough about her to give up one of my closest friends. She wasn't worth it.

I knocked once, twice, and he didn't answer. I almost turned to walk away, but I saw the flash of his hair in the frosted glass of his front door, and I tried the handle. It swung open, and I suddenly knew everything was wrong. Dead wrong.

A girl was draped all over him on the couch in nothing but lacy red underwear, and his hands were all over her waist, her legs, her hair. She was small and pale, soft and so skinny that the knobs of her backbone could be seen against her ghostly skin. They were moaning, grunting, kissing, and the smell of sex and sweat hung heavy in the air. Her legs were straddling his waist, and he was wearing nothing but his boxers, perspiration shimmering against his skin. Her dark hair was tangled crazily against her back, and Chad's brown fingers were clutching at her waist, grinding up against her, swearing against her neck.

"What the fuck?"

She turned around quickly, her hair catching against her lips, and she didn't even bother to cover herself. Her small breasts were heaving, her shoulders were shaking, and her face was familiar. Shame.

He was still into her, rubbing her nipple betwen his fingers like a pebble, digging his hand into the sides of her underwear, breathing hard, making her shudder. He couldn't get enough of her.

He was fucking Gabriella's best friend.

The look in his eyes frightened me. He laughed, cold and harsh, and said in the calmest voice, "Get the hell out. I've got some unfinished business here." He hadn't even blinked, hadn't even stopped rubbing himself into her, hadn't even let her go.

He tugged at her hair suddenly and painfully, and his face moved lower, towards her breasts, towards her heart.

I almost threw up in my mouth when I turned to leave. I couldn't stop running, and kept running until I could feel my pulse pounding through my ears, until I couldn't hear his laughter anymore. Until I stumbled on the pavement and kneeled on the cement, watching the blood darken a perfect circle on my jeans.

**//CHANGE OF VIEW//**

I can feel his warm breath on my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair, the coolness of his metal necklace against my back, and I feel like I'm in heaven. Boundless. Floating.

Red and white streamers are dancing in the brisk autumn wind, and the sky is a perfect blue, there's laughter and screaming all around us, and this is what high school is all about. We're cheering on our football team for their first game in the season, and I should be looking at the score, but I'm closing my eyes and breathing. The coolness of the inhalation, the warmness of the release. The scent of my boyfriend holding me, carressing me, loving me. He kisses the side of my neck, soft and sweet like a whisper.

"Mmmm. This is nice." And it's such an understatement, and I hope he can read through the tremor in my voice and realize what I really want to say, what I really want to let him know. His arms are around me now, cinching the smallness of my waist, tickling my stomach with his fingers. My heart is shaking.

"Your hair smells like Gummi bears." He's laughing now, a deep, baritone laugh that sets thousands of butterflies into flight, and his jawline is perfect, a man's jaws. Perfect for the curve of my hands. Perfect to hold while kissing.

"I love Gummi bears," he confesses shyly. It feels like a moment captured from a movie, and it takes until this moment to realize how goddamn lucky I am.

I'm addicted to him, to the strength of his shoulders and the warmth of his touch, to the dimples in his smile and the depth of his golden brown eyes. Chad is everything I need, everything I want. I don't love him, but I can't imagine my life without him, and as my fingers tangle with his, I realize I like the way he holds me now. Like I might break. Like I might slip out of his grasp. Like I'm delicate. I stroke the underside of his wrists with my fingers, revelling in the softness, in the baby-smooth skin, in the vulnerability he shows me when we're together.

The past few weeks, he's been nothing but good to me. We've walked hand in hand down Main Street, we've dangled our feet into the river by the docks, we've shared hot drinks over at the cafe, we've read together in the library. He taught me how to play basketball. I taught him how to laugh, a deep throaty laugh that still warms me up with happiness. He knew exactly what to say to make me smile, blush, giggle, kiss him. Just last night, as we were laying in each other's arms on his couch watching a movie, as he reached over me to grab a handful of popcorn, I saw that he'd drawn in a little heart with red pen on the underside of his wrist with our initials. Just last week, when we fell asleep under the stars and watched the constellations, I wished on a flash of shooting star that this would last forever. Every day, he slipped tiny candy hearts into my pocket, chalky pastel things with sayings like 'Be Mine', 'You're Hot', and 'Love Me.' Dangling from my wrist is his one-month anniversary gift for me: a white-gold bracelet with star charms. "You make my every wish come true," he told me, and pressed a kiss against my temple. I almost wanted to cry, he was so perfect.

Ten perfectly blonde cheerleaders execute cartwheels, and the flutter of skirts and the shimmer of tanned legs reminds me of coldness, somehow. I can feel him tense up behind him, I can feel him lean forward, for a better look. For a peek of red panties, for a shadow of cleavage. I close my eyes and pretend he's not looking, pretend he doesn't care about them, that one of me is more than enough. That my short legs, my dark skin, my lack of grace, my shyness is all he needs from me. That I'm good enough, that he can't even think of anyone else when he has me in his arms. But when he exhales into my hair, I can smell his excitement, I can taste his lust.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the purple heart he's hidden there. 'Sexy'. I shove it into my mouth, suck on it, let its sickening sweetness fill my tongue. I grind down hard with my molars, shattering the candy into a million grains of sugar. I'm reminded of things I don't like about him. How he always pushes me physically, always going as far as possible before I have to slap his hand or move away. How his eyes always seem to drift to my breasts, how they never stay on my face, on my eyelashes, on my smile. How sometimes, he doesn't even pay attention to what I'm saying, how he can't stop talking about himself. How, when we're someone public, his eyes are always following girls: the sway of their hips, the curve of their breasts, the expanse of their legs.

I turn suddenly, and before I know what's happening, I kiss him. Roughly. On the lips. I can sense his surprise. I can tell he's not even thinking of me, he's thinking of them. Of blonde. Of everything I'm not.

I pull back from him, watch him for a moment under my lashes. He keeps my gaze before returning to what's behind me.

Fuck.

And I can't take it anymore, and my heart is sliding, and something like fire bursts between my breasts. My bones are aching, and my eyes are so, so dry. And I'm trying to slide from his lap, trying to push forward, trying to escape, and my eyes meet blue. Troy's staring at me, and I keep his gaze.

He's regarding me with something like softness in his eyes, and I can feel his pity. I can tell he knows about me, that he knows about him, that he knows about us. That he realized from the beginning, that this is where I'd be: embarrased and hurting, 10 rows up, with a scoreboard flashing behind me, beckoning me home. And I look at the empty space beside him, at the blonde I know I'll find there, but all I see is the dull-downed metal of the bench. All I see is a space perfect to fit me. And my heart breaks a little more, because in so many ways, he's too far away.

And Chad's tugging my jacket sleeve, asking me politely to move out of the way, that he's missing the show. And I can feel my skirt ruffling in the breeze and I'm wondering why I even bothered trying to look nice today when I'll never be good enough, right enough. And I'm closing my eyes and I'm wondering what it would be like to lean back, to fall, to wait until someone catches me. Behind my eyelids, I'm working out equations that always work out in the end. When I open my eyes, he's still there. His hand, manly and confident, stretches halfway and he gives me a wave, a tickle of fingers. But through it all, I can still see the pity. He's looking at me like I'm a stray puppy kicked to the curbside, and I realize that's exactly what I am, trapped here in rows and rows of bleachers, smiling in the breeze to someone facing the opposite direction.

Someone scores a touchdown, and the crowd erupts around me, but he's still looking. Still staring. Something like courage surges through my veins, and I turn, my curls clinging to my lips, and I leave, my boots clanking against the metal steps. And Chad's calling after me, his voice heavy and useless in the air, and I'm trying to conjure up butterflies but all I taste is iron on the tip of my tongue.

I'm looking up at the sky, and all I see is perfect blue. Not a cloud in the sky. I shove my hands deep into the warmth of my pockets and sigh contentedly, knowing that he'll follow me.


	13. Hungry

_Three months later_

I'm weak, and I know that, but somehow, wrapped up in his arms, all I feel is strength. The strength that comes with the knowledge that someone loves you, or at least cares for you, or at least thinks you're pretty.

I walked away from him once, but when he cradled my unfolded hands in his and looked into my eyes and told me I was the one, the only one for him, I couldn't find the heart to pull that childish hope from his lips, his mouth, his smile. I couldn't find the heart, but here I am, and now he's smelling my hair and saying I smell like pomegranates and there's that whoosh of air again, that feeling that somehow, even with my weird and quirky peculiarities, I'm cared for.

Troy. Somehow, the wind, the sky, the coolness of the metal beneath my fingertips reminds me of him. He tried to warn me once, a few months ago, that maybe Chad wasn't who I thought he was. That maybe I should stand alone for awhile and reconsider. He leaned towards me underneath those sweaty bleachers, almost reached out to touch my fingertips, my cheek, my hair. The blue of his eyes was strong, insistent, and I almost believed him for a moment. I almost thought that he cared. But then, the corner of his mouth curved into that half-smile, and I realized how stupid I was, how pathetic I could be. I hate Troy, but I know enough about him to realize this: he wants what he can't have, and he can't be happy, ever. And maybe Chad's happy with me, and maybe I'm happy with Chad. And even though something in my heart was telling me I've got it all wrong, I reached out and slapped his cheek, lightly. He looked surprised, genuinely surprised, and then he gripped my wrist between his fingers and pushed me up against the metal bars of the bleachers behind me. He told me, "Don't say I didn't warn you, bitch," and glared at me with the bluest eyes, and scrambled out from under the metal and left me alone, in the cold, with my cheeks wet and my shoulders shaking. He never looked back. He hasn't looked back since.

I'm weak, and once I'm tangled in the lie of who Chad is, I can't find the courage to squeeze his hands in mine and walk away. This feels so nice. This feels like home.

"You know, even if I look at other girls, you're it for me. You know that, right, Gabriella?" We're swaying on the rusty swing set in the abandoned park across from his house, and the air smells like heated plastic and forgotten sunshine. My stomach grumbles a little, and I realize that I'm hungry. I push the sounds under my skin. My sneakers are dragging in the sand, and I'm tipping my chin to watch the stars appear on the horizon, the milky sliver of the moon like an angel's fingernail in the darkening sky. I wish I was ten years old with my hair in braids around my face, with a best friend and a whole heart, and a laugh that was real. Genuine.

"I know. But… why do you have to look at all?"

"Gabriella, I'm a guy. Guys look. It's natural, but I'm a one-girl kind of guy. I'm your guy. Okay? Isn't that what you want?" His fingers are tightening on the chains, and that perfect boyfriend smile he's giving me is lost in the push of wind that keeps him forward, propelled, just out of reach.

I know what I want to say. I want to push him off that stupid swingset and kick sand into his mouth and scream, "Guys look at other girls! That's your frickin' excuse? I don't want you to be like every other guy – I want you to be a man, Chad. A man who's strong enough and real enough and kind enough to keep eyes on me. A man who will hold me and tell me, 'Why the hell would I look when I've got you?' That's what I want!"

But instead, I dig the tip of my toes into the sand, push off, and swing a little closer to the stars, hoping the wind against my face and hair will dry my tears before I realize that I'm crying.

I realize he's stopped slipping me candy hearts, I've realized that he's stopped calling me beautiful. He told me once, that maybe I was gaining a little weight, and not in the good way. And then he laughed, ruffled my hair, and told me he was joking, that I was cute, that he was just wanted to see my expression.

But ever since that day, everything seems unappetizing, greasy, too much. Every time I put on a pair of my jeans, I realize that maybe they're fitting a little snugger, that maybe the button slipped in a little easier yesterday. Whenever I look in the mirror as I'm brushing my teeth, I realize that maybe my cheeks have gotten a little rounder, my tummy a little less flat, that maybe my waist isn't as small as it was before. When I go to the mall and try on new clothes, I always stare at myself in the mirror when I'm wearing nothing but a bra and panties, and I pull at skin, finding places where there's too much elasticity, too much fat. And then I collapse into an origami triangle, a tiny curve of flesh in the corner of the fitting room, and cry silently, my body shaking. And I don't see pretty anymore. I just see skin, too much of it, and a neck that rolls under if I press my chin flat against my collarbone. And then I stop. I just stop eating for a little while. I'll sip on cold water during the day, and I'll keep chewing tiny squares of gum if I'm hungry.

I can't believe I haven't realized how fat I was until someone, someone special, pointed it out to me.

I'm disgusting. I can feel the fat even now, between my thighs, under my arms, and it makes me want to puke out my insides.

I can't believe I'm that girl I promised myself I would never be.

I'm weak. I know that. But what the hell am I supposed to do?

"Hey, babe." Chad sounds so sweet on the phone, his voice strong and low, a voice pretty enough to make my knees tremble, just a little bit. He sounds kind of out of breath, but I push it aside.

"Chad, can I come over? I just need someone right now." I know my voice sounds so desperate, so pathetic, but I don't know what else to do. I'm trying to imagine his face, the curve of his smile, the crazy poof of his hair, and somehow, the pieces of who he is comforts me. I can almost feel his fingers on my back: soft, insistent, always there.

"Uh, now's not a good time, babe. In an hour?" He's whispering now, and I smile at his endearing quirkiness. He's a mystery of a man, but I know enough about him to realize that I can never keep up with why he does the things he does. But I need him now, and he's pushing me away. I need him now. Only him.

I open my lips again, try to plead with him, but I realize that he's hung up. I stare at his name on my cell phone for a while, the glowing blue letters, and wonder when exactly I got so dependant on him, why he's not so hung up on me, how he can press 'End Call' without even saying goodbye, without even pausing long enough for me to feel the smile in his voice. I seem to need him always, and I can't imagine life without him, but somehow I can't seem to let him go. I'm addicted to him, to his voice, to the way he looks at me now, the slowly shrinking version of me, and has finally started calling me beautiful.

You have no idea how nice that feels.

I realize that I can't wait to see him in an hour… that I need to see him now. His house is close enough to mine to walk, even though it's gotten cold, too cold this early in the season. I stuff my legs into flat-heeled boots, slip my hands into my favourite pair of patterned gloves, and kiss my Mom on the cheek. "I'm going to Chad's, okay, Mom? I'll be back in a couple of hours." She grasps my elbow for a moment, and I see the concern there. She's realized that I've stopped eating, and she's worried. I can see it in the creases on her forehead, in the way she can't look at me for too long before her eyes glitter with the faintest of tears. But I can't stop now. I've gotten so far. I can wrap my fingers around my wrist with room to spare.

You have no idea how nice that feels.

I squeeze her hand and press another kiss to her chin, hoping she can tell how much I love her by the way I linger for a moment and trace a fingertip against a wisp of grey hair at her temples.

As I'm walking out the door, I catch a glimpse of my refection in the round mirror in the foyer. I look plain, I realize, just like any other skinny girl, and I rummage in my pocket for a moment, bring out a tube of tinted lip gloss. He would want me to look nice, I know. Rub, rub, rub, shine. Pretty-baby red lips smile back at me, and I hope I'm good enough for him, beautiful enough for him.

I stuff my hands into my pockets and shut the door behind me, breathe in the cool minty air and twirl a little as I jump from the porch to the bottom step. Something about the cold makes me feel carefree, weightless, and I've walked to his house so often that I could trace my footprints with my eyes closed. The world is starting to fade around me, the vibrant colours of autumn turning to a crisp brown. Tiny black birds crowd the hydro lines, and white clouds stretch against the sky. I can feel the earth beneath me, groaning with the weight of it all, the sadness of change.

I yearn for snow, for ice, for biting cold. Anything is better than these few grey days of uncertainty, of in-between.

I can see the tip of his house, the charcoal roof, the cheery red of his garage in the distance. The chalked-in lines of a basketball court on the pavement, a few potted geraniums lining the windowsill. He's got a dog, a little sister, a mother who makes the best goddamn muffins the world. His kitchen tiles are yellow, and he's got this stupid painting of a blue rose in a vase in his bathroom which he claims to hate, but I know he doesn't really mind. One wall of his bedroom is covered with silver tire rims, and his flannel sheets smell like his shoulders when I lean in to rest my cheek on his chest. I feel so at home in his home, surrounded by his things, smelling in his Chad smell, the sight of his family. Sometimes, I imagine sitting at their dinner table for real, forever. Being a part of his family for good.

I remember him, suddenly, last night. We were tangled on his couch, kissing, and he was running his hands through my hair, and he tasted like chocolate and something else. He slipped his hands under my shirt, told me I was pretty, that he loved me, that he wanted to go the next step and did I mind? I remember just staring at him, staring at the wall behind him, the tire rims, and trying to mouth out the answer he wanted to hear. His fingers traced the clasp of my bra, hooked onto the belt loop of my jeans.

"Not yet. I'm not ready yet."

I know it was the answer he expected, but he kissed me harsh anyways, told me that maybe I should rethink it soon, because he really wanted to be with me that way. He took my hand in his, placed it on his chest so I could feel his racing heartbeat. "It's all you, baby. Remember that."

And I knew it had mostly to do with the idea of sex, of sex with me, but I smiled and blushed anyway, let my hand linger there. His hands drifted down to cup my ass through my jeans, and I didn't stop him. He smiled against my mouth, nudged me with his lips.

I realized, in that moment, maybe that was what love felt like. That maybe, I could change my mind soon.

I'm at his door, at the red door I've stood in front of all those times before, but suddenly I feel the urge to walk away. I know he'll be angry that I've come unannounced. He might be mad enough to hit me, to scream, to push me out the door. I just want to make him happy. He's my only weakness.

But suddenly, I remember his smile against my lips, the way he held me so close, and I know he loves me enough that he won't get mad, that he'll be happy to see me. That he's missed me.

My fingers grasp the doorknob of its own volition, and when I turn, it opens. Chad never locks the front door. I guess that's what trust is all about: leaving yourself vulnerable.

I rub my lips together as I enter the kitchen, hoping my lips are still pretty-baby shiny, but Chad's mom isn't there even though there's a tin of muffins cooling on the counter. My stomach grumbles, but I leave the yellow room and curve into the corridor, letting the glossy wooden railing slide under my fingertips as I walk up towards his room. The carpet feels fresh and warm beneath my socked feet; I can still see the vacuum lines. The whole upstairs floor smells like clean laundry, a smell I've grown to love.

I can hear him before I see him, and my heart stops for a moment, clangs insistently against my ribcage as sweat trickles down my spine. I'm wrong. I'm wrong.

Fuck.

The door is open a little, just a little, and his lamplight spills onto the cream carpet.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The mattress is creaking, and I can smell the sweat, hear the tiny female mewls, the sounds of skin against skin. The low groan Chad makes when he's kissing me, when he slides his fingers against the smooth skin of my back.

No.

No.

I push the door open, quietly, and I'm falling –

Chad's hair, his hair. She's got her hands in it, tangled in it. And she's moving up against him, her spine shimmering in the light. His fingers, his beautiful fingers, are cupping her ass, pulling her close, and he's letting out this animalistic grunt. My ring, my birthday present for him twinkles against his finger, slides against her breasts and nipples, and I feel like puking, like throwing up, like emptying myself on the floor

- and I can't get up. Because she's my best friend. Because he's the only thing I have right now, and now, I don't even have that.

Because, because. Fuck.

"CHAD!"

I'm screaming, and I'm crying, and there's liquid pooled on my cheeks, and I feel like ripping the hair out of my head and falling asleep and waking up in a world where this isn't happening.

And he's not even stopping, he doesn't even understand that I'm here. So I grab Kelsi, that bitch, by the arm, and throw her to the ground, to the carpet with a rage I never knew I was capable of. And she's stunned, crawling up into herself, staring at me with her blonde hair in sweaty clumps around her face, and her eyes are half-closed, seductive, and she's dripping with sex, her breasts topped with hard pebbles of betrayal, and I feel like kicking her in the mouth, but she's not worth it.

"Chad," I say it softly now, a whisper, and I feel something break inside of me. Something precious. Maybe my heart.

I can't even see him, my vision blurred with tears, my knees shaking, my chest heaving. But I know he's reaching for me, covering himself, wiping the sex from his fingers, trying to make this good somehow.

"Gabby, baby. Gabby…"

I crawl up on that bed beside him, tangled in those sweat-soaked flannel sheets, and punch him, keep punching him in the chest, reveling in the wounded, scared sounds he's making. I want to make him scream. I want to kill him.

Fuck.

I want to fucking kill him.

I grab his hair, angle my knee between his legs, pull his face close to mine, so close I can taste his fear, his fucking apology. Close enough that he can see my tears, my pain, my hate.

He leans forward, tries to kiss me, and he still smells like her.

I push him away like he's a disease, something catching. I punch him in the eye, in the mouth, feel the crack of teeth against my wrist, and I realize that I'm bleeding, that he's crying, that whatever I do, he won't fight back, he won't even feel the way I feel right now, at this moment.

In the end, it hurts all the same. It feels like someone split open my chest, grabbed that pulsing organ of my heart, and tore it apart with gnashing animal teeth. Something like that. Nothing like that. So much worse.

I move away from them, both of them, and let out all the sounds under my skin.

I could die.


End file.
